Fifteen Years
by sarapals with past50
Summary: A story of Sara and Grissom, leading to GSR-eventually. A few chapters of history before Vegas. Fifteen years doesn't mean much when you are in love!  Rating will change.
1. Chapter 1

_Happy New year 2012! Here's a new story leading to GSR! Enjoy!_

**Fifteen years Chapter 1**

_1980_

_SSSSSSSS_

Most days were not bad, nine year old Sara Sidle thought as she sat on the front steps of the place she called home. Her parents would be awake, sometimes drinking coffee and talking about what they were going to do, before she left for school. When she returned home, her dad might be away trying to find work that paid him enough to buy a bottle of cheap liquor or a six-pack of beer. Her mother was beyond working—and on good days, Laura Sidle would sleep most of the day away.

Today was not a good day and from the noise inside the house, the day had been a very bad one; she had heard their noise as she walked up the sidewalk. They were screaming about everything. Before she got to the porch, glass was breaking. The wars she read about in history books were nothing compared to the on-going battle between her parents.

This was the third time this week she had come home to a major fight. Her dad would beat the walls so hard his hands would bleed. Occasionally, he hit her mother—sometimes with his fists or objects such as a lamp or a book or shoved her into a door. And her mother would throw things at him. They were well known at the emergency room—lies were told to cover truth and yet Sara knew the nurses knew the truth.

Sara could visit Mrs. Dodson, the next door neighbor, but it would only give her parents something else to scream about. Her mother said they did not accept charity from anyone; Sara smirked. That was a lot of nonsense; they had been on welfare off and on since moving from the bed and breakfast house her parents had tried to run as a business.

Instead, Sara daydreamed. She wished for peace and quiet, to live in a house where life was "normal", to have her parents make decisions as adults. She was nine and smart; she read all the mail and checked bank account statements, even paid some bills when she was able to gather up enough money or get her mother to sign a check. She knew why they had moved to this crummy neighborhood and into a small rental house with one bathroom, so sparsely furnished that visitors would not have a place to sit. Not that anyone ever visited—only the bill collectors came to the front door.

She lifted her face and looked toward Mrs. Dodson's house. For Sara, Mrs. Dodson had been a life saver, at least a good friend to the gangly too-tall-for-her-age girl who had moved next door. Sara knew Mrs. Dodson had figured out her parents, heard them fighting, knew they did not work, but she was too nice to let on. Sara appreciated that. Sara's mother would not speak to the elderly neighbor, but ranted about charity when Sara came home with a new sweater one day. But Mrs. Dodson continued to be kind, to buy new socks and underwear for Sara, to provide an after-school haven, and a place to study an old set of encyclopedias when Sara's parents were having a really bad day.

Sara hugged her books to her chest. She could walk over and knock on Mrs. Dodson's door and receive a warm, genuine welcome. She could stay on the porch and hope the yelling and crashing inside would stop. The nine year old grimaced at the sound of a heavy thud—one had pushed the other to the floor, or one had fallen. Another round of loud cursing followed. She opened a book and started reading—geography was her newest interest and her teacher had loaned her a book with exotic names and beautiful photographs filling page after page.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Finally, the noise stopped. She stood, reached for the door knob and turned it slowly so it wouldn't make noise. She peeked in. Her mother was on the sofa, passed out from alcohol or exhaustion. Her father was not to be seen. Sara slipped in and leaned over her mother, checking for breathing and blood—yes on the breathing and no on blood.

The living room was a mess of broken bottles, cans, newspapers, and half eaten food. The kitchen was even worse. Sara sighed; she had washed dishes last night and now pans and plates were scattered over the counters as if a dozen people had eaten there. She went to her room, so small if she lay crosswise on her bed, she could put her feet on one wall and the palms of her hands on the other. Hanging her school clothes in the closet, she pulled on pants that were too short and an old sweater.

At nine, Sara's emotions vacillated between love and hate for her parents. Her dad was smart and on his good days, he would spend hours working math problems with her. He wasn't strict with her, often told strangers how smart his young daughter was; her mother complained of his obvious favoritism. Sara loved him without reservation when he was sober, but when drunk, he could not remember what he had done the day before—which was often hanging out with his drinking buddies.

When he staggered home after a day of drinking, or when Sara's mother got in his face about some imagined fault or action, his behavior deteriorated to yelling and pounding the walls and her mother responded with screaming and throwing things which continued until one or both passed out. Sara knew something was wrong with her mother—normal people did not see things or imagine conversations like her mother did. Her dad called it "mental illness" but at times her mother was extraordinary with praise for her daughter. Even when that happened, Sara knew her mother's attention was different from the usual mother-daughter interest. And Laura Sidle could make the most amazing plans and tell wonderful stories of how their lives were going to be until her "mental illness" covered every thought and action.

Both parents had enough bad days that Sara no longer told them of parent-teacher meetings or programs at school. She was smart. Her teachers knew it and several of them provided extra lessons, let her read books several grades ahead of her level. In her backpack, she had a letter with her test scores putting her in the ninety-fifth percentile for sixth graders—and Sara was a fourth grader. She had read the letter; her teacher wanted parental permission to give Sara an above-level assessment test which would place her several grades above the fourth grade. The geography teacher had whispered that sixth graders were studying the Americas, its people, land, climate, and water which combined history and geography. The woman had smiled with such sincerity and affection that Sara smiled with her.

As she washed dishes, cleaned the kitchen, and swept up broken glass, Sara's daydreaming began again. She wanted what was normal so desperately that she would, and often did, hide her intelligence from others. She had few friends at school but this was more of her own choice—hiding her family life—than because of her math skills or reading comprehension. She knew her fourth grade teachers were careful not to call attention to her abilities but she suspected she was the topic of an on-going discussion. Why else would her geography teacher give her a beautiful book of maps or her history teacher slip her a book on European history covering the Hundred Years' War. She loved both subjects, keeping the books hidden behind her bed to keep them safe from her parents.

She found a couple of slices of bread and smeared one with grape jelly and the other with the last of the peanut butter. Supper. No milk, no juice, not even tea to drink. There were two eggs in the refrigerator and she decided to boil those for her breakfast. She wiped spilled beer from the table and threw a dozen empty cans in the trash. They needed real food, but she had no way to buy anything—and she knew her dad had no money by the number of beer cans in the house.

Taking her sandwich and a glass of water into her bedroom, she closed the door, ate her supper while she completed homework—a process that took her fifteen minutes—and then pulled out the hidden history book. Knowing her parents would sleep until daylight, she pulled her bedcovers over her and continued reading until almost midnight, pretending she was in a quiet cocoon of safety.

GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

Gil Grissom raised an eyebrow as the young woman approached. At twenty-four, women liked him—and he liked women. He was a scientist and kept himself immersed in his work, but a beautiful woman could catch his eye and this one was headed to the window seat next to his aisle seat.

"Let me help with that," he said as he rose from his seat and lifted her bag into the overhead compartment.

She murmured a pleasant response and slipped into her seat.

Grissom liked the tangy smell of her fragrance as her shoulder grazed his. He took his seat again and clipped the seat belt together.

"Heading home?" He asked watching as the young woman crossed slim ankles and wiggled a bit before she fastened her own seat belt. The long flight to California might be more enjoyable than he had thought if this woman was more than a pretty face.

An hour later the pretty face had lost its attraction as she had talked so much drivel that Grissom made a polite excuse and escaped to the bathroom where he wanted to hide until landing. Pretty girl had laced sentences together without ceasing about her soon-to-be famous acting career and her wonderful agent and a dozen other nonsense topics. His mind was numb from the incessant chatter. Two rows behind his seat an old man was sleeping against the window; the aisle seat empty. After a quick trip to the back of the plane, he returned to his seat, retrieved two books from the overhead compartment, and, making no excuse, settled into the empty seat two rows back and opened a book. Frivolous continuous conversation had never been his strong point; listening to it even less so.

With the book open in his hand, he did not read. Instead, he thought of home, not a house or an address, but the sunny place where he had lived all of his life. He had barely allowed himself to think of home and his mother during the entire trip. His three day interview had gone surprisingly well and Grissom had left Minneapolis with a job offer in hand. The position was similar to what he had been doing, more money, more responsibility, but it would put two thousand miles between him and his mother, separate him from the only place he had ever called home.

When he was nine, his father had died, and his mother, hoping to counteract the lack of a father, told him daily that he was destined for a unique path in life. When his interests turned to science, she made sure he experienced every museum exhibit relating to biology, botany, ecology, astronomy—anything relating to his budding interest and the two were standing in line when the doors opened. For birthdays and Christmas, she gave him microscopes, chemistry kits, rockets and weather stations. Yet, his favorites were ant farms—especially when he learned he could win school science fairs with his meticulous presentation of a year with an ant farm. At twelve, he received small anatomical models of humans and animals and he quickly proceeded to collecting dead animals and dissecting them, comparing real ones to his models. By the time he was in high school, he was immersed in studying insect activity, especially finding the orderliness of insects interesting—and his teenage hobby had slowly bloomed into a college diploma, graduate work, and a doctorate degree in entomology.

He smiled to himself; Betty Grissom was a saint. She held three graduate degrees, ran a successful art gallery, served on civic boards, started an art program for special needs children and lavished attention on talents, real or fictitious. She took risks, loved the limelight and stood fearless in the face of change when she lost her hearing and her husband within a few years. For years, her son had wanted to be like her, but at some point, he realized they did not experience the thrill of living in the same way.

His mother was an extrovert, so gregarious, so sociable and self-confident that people seldom considered her deafness as a handicap. Grissom was not as shy as he remembered his father, who taught at the same school for years, and had depended on his wife for social contacts. His father had been an enigma as he stood before students teaching botany every day, but found it difficult to respond to a greeting from a grocery clerk.

Grissom knew he would have more difficulty with separation than his mother would. She would see his new job as breaking out of a mold of his own making. A master at bolstering his self-esteem, she would say this was a step in the right direction even if it moved him two thousand miles away in a new city with long cold winters.

He wiped his hand over his face and raked fingers through his hair. If his mother had ever thought his chosen occupation was odd—working in the coroner's office—she had never voiced it to him. He knew he was very lucky to have a strong, generous mother.

In a few seconds, he closed his book and his eyes and joined his slumbering seat mate in a high-altitude nap.

As the plane landed, Grissom knew his mother would be waiting just beyond security. She would have parked her car, never considering that she could have picked him up curbside—and she had probably arrived at least forty-five minutes prior to his scheduled arrival. Betty Grissom, just as he expected, was waiting for him as if he had been gone for weeks instead of three days.

His mother was a striking woman for her age, fit, well-dressed wearing a pink and gray suit looking more like a television star than the young woman on the plane could ever hope to achieve. She grabbed his hands and lightly kissed his cheek before letting go and signing:

"You got the job" her hands moved as a smile spread across her face. "I am so proud."

He nodded; she had known before he told her. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and they headed to claim his luggage.

Betty's hands kept signing, "When will you move? Is Minneapolis beautiful? Do you know where you will live?"

Grissom was laughing; he stopped walking, faced his mother and signed "I will tell you everything when we get home."

_A/N: We are writing a glimpse of history with this one-you will see a pattern as chapters are posted. We enjoy reading your comments, so please take a minute and let us know what you think!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thanks for reading!_

**Fifteen Years**

**Chapter 2 **

_1985_

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

At fourteen, Sara was the tallest girl in tenth grade and also the youngest. If height had not made her stand out, her age would have. Mostly, the other girls ignored her; the boys were more kind or tolerant—a few recognized her aptitude for sciences and math. But she had no serious expectations of friendships. Why would anyone want to be a friend to the girl whose mother had killed her father?

Sara did not attempt to remember the past. In fact, when she did think about her parents or her life before the Richards, she was unable to recall much about it except for a sad jumble of objects. The sneakers she had worn for over a year, every day, the only shoes she had; the last lumpy little bed she had in a house rented by her parents; the old lady who lived next door for a while. She pushed the night when her mother had killed her father so far back into her mind she had to deliberately concentrate to bring the event into her thoughts.

The Richards were her third foster parents and by the end of her first week, she prayed to God she would be able to stay in their home until she 'aged out' of the system. They were the oldest couple Sara had lived with; they had no other foster children and their grown son lived in San Francisco. Another difference—the older couple did not try to give themselves a parental name—they were Mr. and Mrs. Richards, even though Mrs. Richards became Janice. They had learned quickly about the quiet, tall for her age girl they had taken into their home and had been the ones who recognized how well Sara hid her intelligence.

Mr. Richards had gone to school with her and in one day of testing, Sara had moved to high school; he had paid a tutor for a month until the woman said she had taught the child all she could.

"I've tutored a lot of smart children, Mr. Richards. This one is a genius. Get her SAT scores to the big schools and she'll have a free ride—full scholarship."

From that day, the Richards had one goal. Sara would set her own pace for learning regardless of what the school system's schedule was for other students. She read all the required books and memorized poems with such speed that her English teacher had moved her to the next grade level in December. For math, she did not have to study—geometry, trigonometry, algebra and calculus entered her brain and came out her fingertips as solutions.

In the spring of her fourteenth year, everyone involved with her education knew Sara Sidle would finish high school before her seventeenth birthday. The day she received her PSAT scores, the Richards decided she deserved a special celebration.

"We're going to take you to San Francisco for the weekend!"

When Sara smiled, Mr. Richards added, "We'll stay with our son so he can be our guide. We'll act like tourists!"

Janice Richards covered Sara's hand. "How long has it been since you've been into the city?"

Sara could not remember; she knew she had been to San Francisco—everyone had been there so she assumed she had been but when asked directly, she could not remember. "A long time, I think."

It was a weekend she would remember for years. The clear blue sky greeted their drive across the long bridge; in the bay sailboats darted around ferries and freighters like butterflies in a garden. The lights and shadows of late afternoon made the city skyline appear as a magical place. Sara sat forward and tried to see it all as Janice pointed to landmarks.

"We'll go to Coit Tower, Sara! You have to see the city from the top." Janice turned to face her. "Do you know its shape?"

They were so far away all Sara could see was a tall upright structure. She answered "I know the story."

"Of course you do!" The woman laughed in a way Sara had grown to love. "I hope you don't mind staying with our son. He's a good boy—has a roommate who is very nice and both are excited to meet our smart girl!"

Sara liked how the Richards referred to her as "our girl", never saying "foster child" even when Mr. Richards came to school meetings. In just a few months, she had seen love between the couple in the ways she had never seen between her parents. Mr. Richards was always kind to her, encouraged her with a few words, and, when they crossed a street, he would take her elbow in his hand as if to protect her from danger. And he was quietly consistent. Every day, Sara's goal was to be as good to him as he was to her. And today, if he had suggested sleeping in the car, she knew she would have agreed.

Their son's apartment was on the second floor of an old building with long narrow rooms and fifteen foot ceilings. A small balcony overlooked the busy street. The apartment appeared to be in a constant state of repair, but Sara saw none of the peeling paint or threadbare carpets or three sagging sofas as the two men welcomed her into their home and carried the small suitcases into the only bedroom.

"We're going to sleep in here," Neil, the roommate, tossed a hand around the living room. "Sara, you get to pick your sofa and Ron and I will take what's left."

Janice quickly came to her rescue. "No, Sara and I will take the bedroom. Won't we?" She had asked a question but no one considered an answer. "You men can have the sofas." Playfully, she shook a finger at Neil. "I will not let a fourteen year old girl sleep in the same room as you two, dear boy!"

"We'll behave, Mrs. Richards. No drinking, no smoking, just healthy fun!"

Janice waved Sara to the bedroom. "We'll make this the girls' room for the weekend. And we get the bathroom first!"

Sara giggled in the middle of this exchange. She realized the two middle-age men were gay and even she knew girls were safe around gay men. The Richards had always talked about their son without giving any suggestion of his sexuality. By the end of their visit, Sara wasn't sure the Richards knew their son was gay or if they had decided to accept the situation without question or comment.

The two men welcomed Sara as their guest as surely as if she were a true member of their family. Gradually, Sara begin to see an artistic quality to the apartment—an expensive dining table with eight matching chairs, beautiful artwork on walls, delicate colorful glassware on window sills and high shelves. They quickly changed into fresh clothes, taking turns in a very small bathroom, with the adults talking while Sara listened.

In the fading twilight, the group set out to walk to a long-time favorite restaurant. The sidewalks were busy with workers heading home and shoppers looking for bargains, food, clothing, flowers, and anything else sold in the hundreds of shops they passed. They walked across several flower filled public squares where parents and grandparents watched children and lovers watched each other.

Sara's eyes were wide, staring at everything around her. The adults pulled her along but stopped for her to watch a bright colored boxy vehicle take on passengers. Sara knew what it was and certain she had never seen one before tonight.

"We'll ride one tomorrow," Mr. Richards promised as they crossed the tracks and the cable car rumbled up the street.

While Sara's eyes took in the store fronts, the parks, the people, the bright lights and soaring heights, her nose was aware of exotic fragrances, chilies and oil, roasting meats and incense, garlic and coffee. The combination was almost overwhelming to her senses and then they seemed to run out of land as they topped a steep hill.

Everyone stopped to let Sara have the best view in the city of a long straight street ending at the waterfront. The setting sun glittered on the water creating a sea of diamonds stretching to the island of Alcatraz.

"Wow," Sara whispered. "It's beautiful!"

The others laughed and bustled around her as they headed away from the direction of bay. West, Sara thought; in a city surrounded by water on three sides it would be difficult to be lost for long.

At dinner in a small Chinese restaurant, she let Ron order her food. Her experience with Chinese food had been egg rolls and frozen dinners. And when she put the food in her mouth, she knew it was the most delicious sensation she had ever had on her tongue. Going back to the apartment, they took a different route and ate dessert at a large diner serving chocolate cake slices cut in wedges as large as her foot. She ate every crumb.

By the time she and Janice crawled into the bed, Sara knew she could have slept on the floor, but Janice told her to think of a city and name each corner of the bedroom.

"When you wake up, the first corner you see will be where you will live!" Janice explained with a laugh.

Sara squeezed her eyes closed and played along. She would not tell Janice, but she named every corner "San Francisco".

GGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

The air was clean-edged as Gil Grissom crossed into California; he breathed in the freshness that was unique to this part of the country. Others would say there could not be a perceptible difference in the air, but he knew the truth after his long spring drive from Minnesota. He had left snow covered ground several days previously and had watched spring arrive in the western deserts on his drive.

His car seemed to recognize the route as the German-made engine purred quietly and seem to swallow up pavement between the state line and the coast. By the time Grissom could actually see the ocean, he had been driving through urban sprawl for an hour. Even the faint trace of smog—or fog—could not diminish his pleasure at how very good it felt to be exactly where he was. And where he was going.

The long winters in Minneapolis were over and he would be in Las Vegas in two weeks to begin his new job. And with the growing economy of the biggest gambling mecca in the country, the crime lab held promises beyond his wildest dreams.

On one hand he was impatient to be there, start a new job with new people, learn more about the city he had visited as a college student. But he wanted to spend some time with the woman he had sorely neglected the past few years.

He drove without stopping until he reached his mother's gallery. She expected him—probably later than he was arriving—as he walked into the place he had treated as a second home when he was younger. He caught a flash of color on the second level and knew the light sent a signal to any place his mother might be working. The door had not closed before a woman approached him from a side room.

"Gil! Welcome home!" Glenda Reynolds had worked in his mother's gallery since he had been a teenager. "Betty is expecting you! You are still collecting bugs and have moved on to real dead bodies. Oh, Gil," she laughed. "Where did we go wrong?" She waved her hand. "All this beauty and you find bugs more attractive?"

He took her outstretched hands. "I know all this is beautiful, but so are insects!" He grinned down into the face of a woman who had been his mother's voice to customers for nearly fifteen years.

"Betty is in the back with the books—oh, nothing wrong," she said quickly. "Just doing her monthly statements." She winked, "And I will say this—we have done exceptionally well the past few years. Everyone seems to be flush with money and willing to buy antique masters or the newest artist holding a paint brush!"

Grissom was extremely fond of Glenda but she could be a chatterbox so he slipped from her grasp and headed to the shop's small office noticing as he walked there were several new additions to the downstairs gallery—a small Lely portrait and a Turner landscape had been added to portraits and pictures occupying Betty's 'wall of pride'. He had not visited the gallery in a while and wondered how she had gotten paintings of such rare quality. And he had no doubt they were genuine.

His mother was closing a large ledger book as he stepped inside the office and for a moment the son faced his mother, his fingertips pressing together as he sought to remember the correct movements for signing. And then she saw him standing nervously, waiting for her notice.

Betty Grissom's changing face was his welcome; her mouth opened in a hushed gasp which changed quickly into a broad smile. Her arms flew open to embrace her only child.

Grissom was one of the few people his mother used her voice to talk with, and she often used signing and words simultaneously with him. Her words were the hushed, monotone sounds of the deaf as she welcomed him home. "Home…last…look different…good…handsome." Her hands were on his face, then signing, touching his shoulders, signing again as they both laughed. Finally, her hands came together and she signed "You are early. Expected you later. Tea. We will have tea." She rapped knuckles on a glass window and in a few minutes, Glenda joined them.

For the next hour, the two women provided Grissom with tea, sweet cakes, and gossip about friends and people known and unknown to him. He heard the story of the Lely and Turner paintings—authentic, shown in the gallery for the owner with a generous commission if sold.

"Where do you keep them at night?" Grissom asked, questioning that his mother's small gallery would be a safe place for two items that might be worth millions.

Glenda pointed upstairs. "We have one Lichtenstein upstairs."

The two women smiled. Betty signed: "Mr. Joshua keeps them for us."

The old jeweler next door, Grissom thought, and smiled.

The conversation moved to his new job, moving to Las Vegas; both women promised to visit as soon as he had settled.

Betty sighed loudly as she signed her question: "Is there a special lady friend? A romance?"

Grissom knew her question was coming. During every visit, his mother would find a way to ask a question about a girlfriend. He hesitated a bit longer than he should have.

His mother smiled. "Yes or maybe?"

He shook his head. "Neither," he signed and quickly moved on to another subject.

After dinner, after his mother had gone to bed, Grissom sat alone on the small patio and listened to the noises of the night that his mother never heard. He had grown up in the neighborhood, gone to college nearby, and, while the area had gradually changed over time, during his absence, gentrification or commercialism seemed to be occurring at a fast pace. He could hear the sound of music from a block away where restaurants, night clubs, and bars had opened on the beachfront.

He grabbed a jacket and went out. The city was as much alive, perhaps more so, than at any time during the day. There were tourists and teenagers, boys on skateboards, girls in short skirts, street performers juggling and playing music, and everyone was talking and singing and dancing at once. Smells of food mixed and lifted away—greasy hot dogs from a small stand, burnt candied nuts from a small store, popcorn, and grilled meats wafted on a moving breeze. He doubted his mother knew any of this happened at night. He walked several blocks to a bar where he had purchased his first beer years ago and found it almost unchanged except for the younger workers.

A young girl took his order for a beer—she was probably twenty-one, but barely—and wiggled away swinging her butt in her baggy pants that almost showed her butt cleavage. He leaned back and watched the sidewalk; women wore less clothing in California and girls were more brazen as they pulled boyfriends by the hand leading them to bliss or trouble, he thought. His waitress returned with a cold beer and leaned a little closer to him than needed. He leaned away from her perky breasts, pushed higher than they should be by some magic under her flimsy shirt.

She smiled. "I know who you are," she said with a soft giggle.

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. Slowly, he swallowed beer.

"You're Mrs. Grissom's son—from Minnesota. You got here this afternoon." She was pleased to tease and puzzle him as she swayed from one foot to the other.

His brain went into overdrive trying to place the young woman—this girl who would have been a teenager a few years ago—fit no memory of anyone he could remember. He took another drink from his beer.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammered. "I—I don't know you."

She laughed the high lilting giggle of a woman-child. "Glenda's niece—I'm Katie!" She giggled again. "I remember you from a party my aunt had—you worked in the coroner's office and I thought it had to be weird to handle dead bodies all day." She took his money for another beer. "And now you have a new job!" She waved the bills. "Right back."

Slowly, he drank two more beers watching Katie and three other young women work the bar and serve customers. And when Katie returned, her triangle apron swinging in one hand, she said:

"Come with us, Gil Grissom! We'll close here and take some drinks to the beach. Watch the sun come up." The way she looked at him revealed an imp of mischief in her eyes, playful and good-natured.

He hesitated; he had been up a long time and his mother would be awake in a few hours.

"Come on, old guy—you can sleep later."

The tease worked. He wasn't old, not for many years, he thought. He burst out laughing and suddenly, he was a different man as he relaxed. Three girls and one guy—his mother would probably learn of this impromptu party and attempt to set him up with Katie, but now he didn't care. In the laughter of the three girls, he could sense girlhood covered by slightly offhand and brusque talk.

He gave no answer, but smiled, and shortly followed the three out of the bar, across the wide sidewalk and onto the beach until the lights no longer reached the sand. They circled, sat down, and the girls talked and giggled and passed beers from shoulder bags. He let them talk, smiled at their words, and sometimes when he reached for a beer, he would let his fingers touch the soft smooth skin of one of the girls.

At some time in their wait for the sun to rise, Grissom's jacket was wrapped about Katie; the other girls were sitting on each side of him so close their thighs touched his with surprising warmth. Katie stuck her cold feet against his. For a second, Grissom could not resist the thought that not so long ago this situation corresponded to his most secret wishes. With a strange anguish, he shifted his body mumbling words about watching the sunset that pushed the group apart and caused an odd round of giggles with the girls.

He made it home and into bed before his mother woke, feeling guilty because he felt guilty that at twenty-nine, he did not want his mother to know he had stayed out until sunrise drinking cheap beer with three giggling twenty-one year old girls.

_A/N: The story continues-moving along and 'smut' is coming. Thanks for reading..._


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Another chapter! We've changed a few dates and events because some things on the CSI timeline don't quite fit-forgive our liberties! Enjoy! _

**Fifteen Years**

**Chapter 3**

_1990 _

Harvard. The name had been mentioned to Sara when she was fourteen. Ronald Richards had asked the high school counselor for catalogs from three universities. Once he and Sara were in the car, he put the one from Harvard in front of her and said "This would be an excellent place to go to college."

With her foster father's caring instructions, she applied and was accepted for early admission before she became the high school's youngest valedictorian. She expected great things from the university, and received an abundance of challenges, encouragements, criticisms, and confidence. What she had not expected to find was fun.

On her first day, she knew she had found the right place when, during an excited tour of the chemistry labs, she heard someone use the word "counterimmunoelectrophoresis"—correctly and in a complete sentence. She moved closer to the guy who said it. Lectures, discussions, labs and a burgeoning social life left little time for sleep so when her first Thanksgiving break arrived, she happily agreed to be the dog sitter for a professor's collection of puppies. Soon afterwards, she had an exclusive clientele as a pet-sitter. The money she made was the first earned money Sara had ever carried in her pocket.

While her scholarship paid for tuition, dorm, meals, and books, spending money came from a variety of jobs. As a pet-sitter, she was dependable. She worked waiting tables—a job beneath many of her fellow students—learning a quick smile and fast service brought tips that stacked into spending cash and a small saving account. A quick hand at cleaning up, she earned money as she developed an iron stomach for handling leftovers, sticky spills, and unknown puddles.

Each term followed much the same as Sara learned her passions—physics, mathematics, and a continued casual curiosity in literature. By the time she was nineteen, she considered herself an adult with the world at her feet. She had grown—filled out, not in curves but in long bones and muscles that gave her strength and in attitude as her intelligence seemed to soar over her class mates. Her professors respected her, showed an academic interest in her work and her future as she began to flex her mind and look beyond Harvard's campus.

Now, she was almost at the end of her education in this academic kingdom as spring arrived in a rush of long days while she spent hours in a cocoon of words and numbers and used every spare minute beyond her studies trying to determine her future. Her options were numerous including remaining at Harvard; some she discarded outright—to remote, too casual, too far down her list of preferred programs. Others in unfamiliar places—Rice, Colorado, Florida, Utah—caught her attention with programs and scholarships. She narrowed her options.

Spring came suddenly following a cold winter and everyone's face turned to the sun; even Sara's as she was dragged from her final lab experiments to participate in the first plunge into an icy-cold creek miles from campus. The small group were all science geeks, enjoyable friends who talked more of the mysteries of the universe than of current music and movies. They laughed, waded rather than plunged, in cold water, and ate sandwiches made from peanut butter and slightly stale bread and bright juicy oranges and drank sweet cheap wine. Talking about a well-balanced mathematical formula seemed to bring a welcomed tranquility to the group as each one secretly contemplated a future that would disrupt this circle of friends. The afternoon had such a calming effect on Sara that she went to bed before midnight, a rare occurrence in the past months.

Reality jerked Sara awake at three in the morning, pulse throbbing, breaths coming as if she had run upstairs, sweat beading across her face. She had dreamed a confusing mixture of things real and imagined. Broken glassware scattered over the floor and a child—she knew the child as herself—was trying to glue pieces together but someone—a shadowy face half-hidden—seized her hand as if to pull her toward darkness as she fought to run away. It was an old familiar nightmare.

She turned on a light, thankful to have the small room to herself, knowing she would not return to sleep, knowing anxiety about her future had caused the dream to return. It was rare for her to remember dreams, but she always remembered the nightmares of broken glass and being pulled in one direction then the other by shadowy faces, the sound of screams, the smell of blood in the air. After her mother had killed her father, she had been taken to a psychologist who wanted her to talk about what had happened. She did not talk then and the nightmare had come. She still did not talk about those years of vicious violence between her parents, and she certainly did not talk about her dreams.

In a few minutes, she was inhaling the steam from her tea cup and reviewing the final assignments and completed projects for her last semester. It was easy for her to concentrate in the quietness and she worked until mid-morning when she dressed and headed to her earliest lecture. Before going to lab—where she had advanced to lab assistant—she ate, actually ate two meals after the tantalizing smell of a bacon cheeseburger reminded her she had not eaten breakfast.

Sara spent the afternoon in the labs; so many students working furiously in the last month of the semester that most of them took no notice of the sun streaming in windows or spring flowers pushing out of winter locked buds. Afterwards, Sara collected her mail, finding a letter from Janice Richards.

The Richards had continued to write her on a regular basis, always extending an invitation for her to visit, and as she opened the letter, several ten dollar bills fell into her hand. The letter contained sad news—Sara knew Ronald Richards had terminal cancer and his wife had written of palliative care—the end would be soon. Sara brushed tears from her eyes as she read Janice's words of promising to call. Sara fingered the cash in her hand; there was no way for her to fly to California and return for finals.

She had spent two winters in Cambridge, holidays in homes of strangers, as she worked to complete her degree in three years. Only once had she returned to the small cozy house of Ronald and Janice Richards. She sniffed and used her sleeve to wipe her face. In March, as a reward to herself, she had emptied her savings account and gone on spring break with a campus group. A rush of memories returned—sweet, laughing boys, sleeping four to a bed, a sun blistered body—and she had a few dollars left when she returned.

If—if she had been careful with her money, if she had worked more hours, if she had gone to see Ronald instead of going with Ken Fuller—if—if her brain played tricks—if she had not come to Harvard but stayed in California, she could be with Janice and be able to spend time with the man she considered her mentor, her advisor, her personal uncritical enthusiast supporter, her friend. She curled her legs under her as she sat down and read the letter again. With the second reading, she cried harder.

"Hey, Sara. What's wrong?"

Quickly she wiped her face before looking up at the voice she recognized. "Hey, Jason." She shook her head. "Nothing I can do anything about—a good friend is dying of cancer—in California. I wish I could see him once more—tell him how much he means to me." She sighed and stuffed the letter into her pocket, gathered her books and stood. Jason was one of her physics friends and he did not expect much or provide much in the way of conservation.

"You want to get something to eat?" he asked.

Basic companionship, Sara thought. In his own way, he was making an effort to make sure she was okay. She nodded.

They walked in silence for several minutes until Jason's soft voice said "Why don't you call your friend? You could get some change—he—he would probably appreciate that."

Sara realized she still held the money in her hand. "I could—I don't think he can talk much." She and Jason had been friends since their first year in the same dorm; never discussed, but both were on scholarships and neither had ever had much money.

As they reached one of the food courts, she checked her watch. "You know, I'm taking a rain-check on food. I'm calling California." She gave him a weak smile and turned.

"Change—you need change!" He called and pointed to the check-out line.

Ronald Richards died of lung cancer the next week, but not before Sara had talked to him and he had managed to say "I love you, Sara, you're my smart girl." For the first time since arriving on campus, Sara missed two lectures as she stayed in bed and cried until noon.

A week later, Sara made a promise to the woman who had been her foster mother for two years and her friend for five. "I'm coming home, Janice. I'll get a job—we can live together."

Janice nixed her plans. "I've known this was coming for over a year, Sara. I'll be fine. You have graduate school ahead of you—find that dream!" Sara heard Janice's comforting laugh. "Besides, you are supposed to live in San Francisco; remember the weekend we spent in Ron's apartment? I'll come to visit you!"

Afterwards, Sara narrowed her options to one program and mailed her acceptance letter knowing Ronald Richards would be proud of her.

GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

It was May and outside a hot dusty wind was blowing from the south. Standing under the shower, Gil Grissom had the slightly depressing thought that this would be the only time he would feel cool all day—and into the night. Drying himself, he realized his body was full of small aches; he had danced for hours last night and now he had to admit he was not in great condition—not for dancing anyway.

He had never been thin, but still had the compact look of a former athletic, aging, but not yet completely gone, which caused him to smile because he had never been athletic. Almost forty, he was enjoying life more than he ever had. His fingers raked through curly hair grown a little longer than usual. His reflection in his bathroom mirror was more serious than he desired, so he grinned, showing his teeth, decided he looked foolish, and reverted to a solemn expression.

He dressed carefully; he was taking his mother and her friend to the airport after they had lunch. He knew this was a set-up—his mother's attempts at finding a daughter-in-law had reached a fevered pitch in recent years. And the longer he stayed in one place, the more insistent she became that "he settle down and find a wife." He had even thought about getting the lab to call him with an emergency but he would please his mother, go to lunch, and wave both women goodbye at McCarran Airport.

His life had exploded—professional and personal—in the past few years. He loved the twenty-four hour culture of a city that never slept. He had managed to convince the sheriff to set aside a few secluded acres of county property to begin a small body farm—it had taken a tremendous amount of work, but had succeeded beyond his dreams. Desert insect activity was different from those in Tennessee and he had been able to illustrate his theory using a few pigs before obtaining a couple of human bodies. Quite by accident, his degrees in entomology and his work in forensics put him in a special category of researchers—a very small group and all three were constantly serving as consultants to law enforcement agencies all over the country.

Personally, his life was fun; he had no intention of taking his mother's advice. The lovely young woman—Julia Holden—who had traveled with his mother to attend a foundation meeting at a local college was very agreeable. And he had gone to last night's social event with Julia which had included dancing—a lot of dancing. She was beautiful, graceful, dignified, and deaf. And he wasn't going to be talked into marriage because his mother wanted grandchildren.

As it turned out, Julia Holden did not leave Las Vegas that day. She remained behind to work on a new project at the college for deaf students. She, too, was a consultant, or learning to be one. Grissom was sure his mother had known of this plan when she introduced Julia on their arrival, but everyone pretended this was a new development.

Grissom smiled, followed their conversation as the two women signed to each other. A few days with his mother and his familiarity with American Sign Language had returned quickly. Assuring his mother he would stay in touch with Julia while she was in Vegas, he waved farewell as she boarded her plane.

He had always found women fascinating—as most men did—and Julia Holden was capable of holding his attention longer than some of the women he dated. With her eyes and with something more, a scent, he thought, she had sent a subtle suggestion that she desired him—a secret language he had learned to read when he had finally decided his life would not be all work. After saying goodbye to his mother, he offered to take Julia on a drive around Las Vegas. And he actually enjoyed the afternoon hours they spent together as he watched her gestures and expressions as he showed her the Strip.

Returning her to her hotel, he promised to contact her the next day.

His shift that night was easy and allowed him to think of the lovely Julia more than he actually had to work. If he named what he was doing, he knew he was working out a seduction of the young woman, but just as easily, any guilt associated with his conscience was dismissed. He was single, happy, healthy and obviously willing to participate in whatever Julia Holden might want.

Once he decided to let Julia guide them in the direction she desired, things happened very quickly. He arranged to take a night off, made dinner reservations at a favorite local restaurant, and waited in the hotel lobby—not assuming he would be welcomed in her room. During dinner, as she sat across the table from him, her inquisitive eyes took possession of him. She noticed his well-fitted shirt, complimented him on his smooth signing, and made the decision to invite him to her room.

Everything had been planned without words. He was amazed—her eyes, the lilt of her head, the smile on her lips, her hand brushing her hair away from her face—at how fast he had learned her language.

The first time he kissed her was in the elevator going to her hotel room. Slowly, he let himself be drawn and enticed by the scent and warmth of the woman beside him; she brought herself closer. He felt the youthful strength and the simple beauty of the female body against his. He felt desire and knew what she wished.

Julia guided him into sex with strong thirsty lips, gleaming white teeth, arms that circled his neck and wrapped around his body. Her skin was white and delicate, and she made a sweet, luring sound in her throat. When his hands touched her skin, she shivered, his arms went around her, and, immediately, greedily, she opened up for him as if this were the first time for both. Hands and fingers usually used for forming words, slipped and caressed, stroked and touched.

Grissom had learned how to bring pleasure to a woman; his fingers stroked the slope of Julia's spine with such soft touches that she sighed, a sound that brought a pleased smile to his face. Lightly, his fingers traced along her thigh until his palm covered her sex. She tensed and arched at his touch; he watched as her eyes closed. His fingers played gently; Julia's head tipped back as she made a long gasp. Quickly, her eyes opened; her hands grabbed him, forcefully placing his erection against her cleft. In a hoarse whisper, she said the first word she had spoken to Grissom, "Now!"

He grinned. He lay over her, hesitated, poised, and let his body touch hers, paused again and lowered himself to her. Within seconds, a long shuddered moan came from Julia. She wrapped legs around his and locked her ankles as he pumped into her until his own groan of passion collapsed his body onto hers.

Afterwards, Julia slept, occasionally breathing deep sighs, a small smile played along her lips. Grissom watched her for a while before finding his t-shirt and boxers and pulling them on. He would not leave her during the night; he tightly tucked bedcovers over Julia, quietly ordered breakfast for late morning, and punched the pillow a few times before he fell asleep on top of the bed spread.

A/N:_ And this is the first 'love' scene we have written for Grissom that does not include Sara! Probably be the last too! Thanks for reading._


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: The last chapter before Sara gets to Vegas! Thanks for reading-we love reading reviews and comments-you are special people!_

**Fifteen Years**

**Chapter 4**

_1995_

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Sara sat on a bench perched high on the ocean front at Battery Park. Elbows on knees, chin cupped in hands, she sat still, eyes trained on the small birds circling around the edge of the water. It was a bright sunny spring day; the sky was a piercingly blue unblemished by clouds, and so still not a blade of grass or a leaf seemed to move.

She loved this place and, in her mind, often referred to the bench as "my place". Sharing a small apartment with three other girls meant almost constant noise; someone was always awake or sleeping or eating or in the shower. It wasn't a bad living arrangement. They worked in similar jobs so when she had moved from Berkeley to San Francisco, desperately wanting to live in the city, she had signed on for the apartment thinking it would be a perfect way to live and work in San Francisco. But at times, she needed space and quiet to let her mind rest and recover.

Keeping her eyes on the birds, she contemplated her future. Her part-time work in the medical examiner's office had become full-time as soon as she graduated. None of her classmates could believe she was staying with it, but in some fascinating way, she enjoyed the quiet process of working with the dead, the complexities and puzzles of determining cause. And, while her former classmates could not see how she would use her degree, she had found an overwhelming parallel—skillful observation, reasoning and analysis was needed with every body that came into the morgue. The lab work was mind-boggling for a murder victim; she had quickly learned the procedures and her boss recognized her potential.

Six months ago, he had encouraged her to apply for another job with the crime lab and while she hated to leave the morgue, she wanted outside. She wanted to see where the bodies originated and what else was involved in determining cause of death. Not just death, she corrected her thoughts; every aspect of the investigative process peaked her curiosity and she was willing to crawl underneath a house for a body or sift pounds of soil to find one clue to the puzzle of so many crimes. In a very short time, the chief investigators were asking for her by name.

The birds finally lifted higher and she watched them circle in the sky before they dipped again over the water's edge. When she heard her name being called, she glanced over her shoulder. Ron Richards was walking down the path. Almost two years ago, his mother, Janice, had died in her sleep. He and Sara had kept in touched after the funeral and the older man made an effort to talk with her every month. When he discovered her love for this spot, he would show up with coffee and food, sit on the bench and talk of restaurants, movies, books, artwork, government—city, state, national, earthquakes, exotic places, and any other topic that did not include Sara's work.

At some point, he had realized he was the only person Sara knew in the city who was not connected to her work and, even though there was almost thirty years between them, he lightheartedly called her "my smart little sis".

"You made it!" Sara called, beckoning him to join her.

For a moment, Ron held her close and she could feel his bony back under his heavy coat. He released his hold and handed her a bag. "I brought us a real treat today."

Sara opened the bag. "Strawberries!"

"Not just any strawberries, but organic strawberries—small, sweet, and ready to eat."

They talked of the recent conference which had brought leaders from all over the world to San Francisco, who had been seen where, the snarls of traffic, and the results of such a meeting. Ron could talk for hours on any topic but he refused to let Sara talk about her work—"too morbid for me!" he reminded her. Months ago, he had said "I don't want to hear about it, Sara!" And he had made such a horrified face that she promised not to talk about work.

At last, he readied to leave, hesitating before he reached into his jacket. He said, "I've sold Mom's house, Sara. I'll never go back there to live and someone offered a good price." He handed her a weighty envelope. "Here's a key—I want you to go up there and take what you want."

Sara started to protest.

"She would want this. And there is a check in there. It's not a lot—you can't buy a house or anything like that, but it will give you a start on a nest-egg." His hand covered her knee. "Put it away for now—use it in a few years when you find that handsome guy and you want a house filled with kids or antiques or a fine dining table!"

The generous gift surprised Sara; her mouth opened at the numbers written on the check. "Ron, what are you thinking? This is a lot of money."

He stood, reached out a hand to take Sara's. "It is not much for the joy you gave my mother. She always wanted a daughter—or a granddaughter and you were the closest she had. Go to the house one day—I'll be happy to go with you—make a day of it. Anything you want in the house is yours." He smiled, placed a quick kiss on her cheek and left her quickly, before she could protest or object or agree.

Later, Sara found it hard to sleep. For a while, she tossed and turned until finally, she got out of bed, pulled on shorts and went outside to sit on the steps and smoke. Vile habit, she thought as she lit the cigarette and she was always attempting to stop, or at least reduce the number she smoked in a day. Right now she was in the "reduce the number" stage. She rolled the little stick between her fingers and thought about Ron's check and his offer.

It was enough money to help her rent her own place—not enough to last forever but she could move out of the quad situation. Or she could keep it in the bank—ask for investment advice maybe, treat it as a real nest egg for her future. She took another cigarette out of the pack—it helped her think.

Ron was dying—she knew it; he knew it. Treatment had improved, proved miraculous for some, but Ron had contracted the disease years ago, she was certain, and while he had not reached end-stage, it was just an opportunistic infection away. She leaned back and watched a sliver of silvery sky. Ron was the last connection with her past—and then only as the son of her last foster parents. Selling his parents house was a sort of closure, the check and the offer of things in the house was Ron's way of saying goodbye.

She must have dozed. The unlit cigarette was in her hand but she heard someone say her name "Sara". She jerked awake. It was the voice of a ghost, her father's voice. In the years since he had died, she had a reoccurring dream—a nightmare if correctly named—of shadowy faces pulling her apart amidst a pool of broken glass. The dream had come so often Sara had learned to recognize its beginning—and its cause. She had not figured out why it was her father's voice she heard.

Early on a Saturday morning, Sara and Ron left the city in a rented van. An adventure, they had agreed, as neither one had much experience driving a van. Sara pointed the vehicle in the right direction and said "Seat belt fastened," and laughed.

An hour later, she said "Everything looks different now," as they turned into their destination.

Ron chuckled. "Not so much—same houses. New cars, more grass."

Sara circled into the cul-de-sac. "Things always look bigger, more impressive to a child. More frightening, too."

Ron replied quietly, "true. How long were you moved around?"

"A year—more or less. Houses with half a dozen kids, all of us sleeping in bunk beds." She made a sound that might have been a laugh. "I got here and thought I'd gone to heaven. Your dad and mom were a gift from God." She gave a true laugh. "And I had my own room—your old room."

Ron opened the door of the van. "Let's see what we can find."

In a strange way, Sara was excited to return to this small house. She always entered with a sense of contentment, the knowledge that she had been welcomed into this home, not as an outsider, but a desired guest. The Richards had never pretended to be her parents but more like old friends. In an instant, her mind pictured herself as she had been then—fourteen, tall, skinny, all arms and legs. Ronald and Janice had taken her in and taken to her at once, as she had to them.

Ron flicked a switch and flooded the closed up house with light. "I did that the last time I was here—left the lights on and turned the electricity off at the breaker box." He used a key and pushed the door open for Sara to enter.

The small house was similar to millions—a small box of small rooms, a combined living and dining room at the front, the kitchen on the back side, and two bedrooms and two bathrooms along a short hallway—and it was pleasantly crowded with old, cheap furniture.

Sara and Ron walked through the house in a few minutes. "Do you see anything you'd like to take? The furniture isn't worth anything, but some of it is solid wood."

He and Sara stood in the doorway of the room that had been his and then Sara's for two years.

"I thought this room was so big when I first came to live here," Sara said. "Your mom had put a new bedspread on the bed and had new towels in the bathroom. I thought it was like a fancy hotel!" She walked into the room and leaned over to look at books on a shelf. "Do you mind if I take these books?"

Ron laughed. "Sara, take anything you want. Years ago I took what I wanted."

They had a fun day, catching up on everything, finding bits and pieces of their lives hidden in closets and drawers, and being perplexed by a few things, trying to guess what some things were used for and why other things had been kept. A drawer filled with old remote control devices, a basket of buttons, school photos of each, a stack of postcards they both had sent to the address.

"Why did they keep these" Sara mused as she turned one over. "This is one I sent from Harvard the first semester I was there!" She ran her hand over the small wood desk. "I'd like this, Ron—if you're sure you don't want it."

At the end of the day, Sara took the desk, a small table with two chairs, an upholstered chair, a bookcase, two lamps, a carved folding screen, a box of books and several photo albums. As Ron locked the front door, Sara stood on the porch in the warm sun and tried to absorb everything; her heart clenched and she felt a strange sense of loss. So acute, so strong was the feeling, tears came into her eyes. She closed her eyes and felt Ron's arm go around her waist. For a long time, they stood together, Sara's head rested on the older man's shoulder. The stillness around them, the silence between them, a quietness that was infinite; it calmed her.

_GGGGGGGGGGGGGG_

Gil Grissom was beginning to despair of ever finding the missing little girl. She had been missing three days and he did not feel any closer to finding her or any evidence, and as time went by the trail got colder. He knew he was becoming a little obsessed with the case when he woke up in the middle of the afternoon and went into work six hours early. Everyone assumed she was dead and they were looking for a body—but where was the body, he asked himself as he looked at the photographs spread across the table.

Photographs from her mother's collection were taped to the wall board. Grissom was looking at—everything else. She had gotten off the bus with five other children, two parents were waiting. In sworn statements, the two adults said all the children had headed to their homes—all within a tight circle of the corner where the bus stopped. Little Elena Cox, seven years old, had seemed to vanish into thin air between stepping off the bus and her house, four driveways from the corner.

He picked up a diagram of the street—a cul de sac. The distance between the bus stop and Elena's house was short—less than one hundred feet in this neighborhood of tightly packed houses. He added photographs to his hand, photographs of the small houses along the street, photographs of the inside of Elena's home.

Not even her backpack had been found. The scent dog, brought in hours later, had gone in circles before the handler decided the scene was too contaminated for the dog to work—too many people, too much concrete, too many animals, water sprinklers had been running in three yards. For the first time in using scent dogs, Grissom had been discouraged.

He left the photographs and went back to interviews. The kids were fairly consistent; Elena got off the bus as usual. She walked in the direction of her house; the other kids went home. An hour later, her mother, who thought Elena was playing with a neighbor's child, had gone in search of her daughter. Another hour or so passed as neighbors were asked if Elena was in their house. Finally, after sunset, the police had been called. And no one had heard or seen a thing—no strange car, no unknown persons—nothing.

He fanned the pages of interviews. Fifteen houses in the neighborhood had six adults at home; four were parents and two were elderly. The parents had been busy with their kids; the older women alone. Wiping his hand across his face, he tried to fix the scene in his mind of a clear and sunny afternoon, a little girl in jeans and red shirt walking along the sidewalk, and—poof!—what happened next—a car, a van that no one remembered seeing. But how could a vehicle not be seen by the other children and the two parents?

Noise in the hallway caused him to look up. Catherine Willows was talking, rapidly, loudly, to someone behind her as she walked toward him.

"She's been found, Grissom! Alive!" Catherine stopped at the doorway of the layout room. "Elena Cox is at the hospital—let's go!"

Catherine was his protégé, his co-worker, his usual partner on the night shift, and for all of his quiet thoroughness and composed demeanor, Catherine was—animated, provocative, beautiful, and smart. He did not have to second-guess what she was thinking because she was normally quick to say whatever popped into her brain—about everything.

"Where was she found?" Grissom asked as he hustled to catch up.

"Just got the call that she was in the hospital," Catherine said, laughing. "We'll find out when we get there." He crawled into the passenger side of the vehicle; Catherine always drove. "The caller—a nurse in the ER—said she was alive. I thought if we got there quickly we could process her before she's cleaned up. I told the nurse to keep everyone away from her!"

She drove a near break-neck speed, lights flashing and maintained a continuous stream of conversation as she drove; all Grissom did was make an appropriate grunt or say an occasional word. He and Catherine worked well together and her one-sided conversation was the primary reason. When he was quiet, she talked; when he was methodical she was all over the place. He knew everything about her personal life; she knew nothing of his.

The nurse might have kept her word, but someone had called the child's parents and notified the press. They had to push through a crowd before a policeman managed to reach them and get them inside the hospital; another crowd appeared to be neighbors, law enforcement, and hospital employees.

Finally, Grissom and Catherine entered a curtained cubicle, guarded by two policewomen, where a sleeping Elena Cox was stretched out on a bed, her parents on either side of her while a nurse was checking vital signs. A physician came in with Grissom and Catherine.

The doctor spoke first. "She was left outside the front door on a bench. Wrapped in a blanket. She's got a contusion on her head—we don't know yet why she's still asleep. We'll get lab results in a while, but I think she's been sedated."

Catherine lifted the sheet covering the girl. "Who undressed her?"

"We didn't bathe her," the nurse replied quickly. "I've put her clothes in a plastic bag—she's not dirty—not clean, but someone's been wiping her so she's not soiled." By the motions made, Catherine realized what the nurse meant.

Grissom took the clothes and left Catherine with the girl to collect everything else. But by the time he got to the lab, there were several other cases that needed his attention, so by the time Catherine returned, he had not started processing the clothes.

"What's up with you," Catherine asked. "Isn't this priority?"

He shook his head in exasperation. "Too much to do and too few people, Catherine. And the girl is safe—did you find anything?"

"Not much. The nurse was right. The girl had been washed—probably with some kind of disposable alcohol-based wipes. Her fingernails were dirty, but it appears to be typical seven-year old kind of dirt."

"Assault?"

"No," Catherine answered. She stood beside him and looked at the same photographs he had looked at an hour ago. "Something is weird about this, Gil. This girl's been missing for three days—it's like she's been in a drug-induced coma! We know she wasn't with her mother, but who would drop her off at the hospital?" After she pulled on gloves, and tossed a pair to Grissom, Catherine dumped the contents of the plastic bag holding the girl's clothing and sorted through them—jeans, shirt, socks, underwear, shoes.

"Where's her backpack?" Grissom asked as he picked up the plastic bag. "The blanket she was wrapped in," he pulled an old frayed gray blanket from the bag, unfolded it, letting his fingers feel between folds.

"Not here—I don't think it was left with her."

"So wherever she's been, the backpack was left—or thrown away." Grissom talked as he unfolded the blanket. He flipped the blanket over and a puffy dusty cloud rose from the movement. "What the-?" He watched as the dust settled on Catherine's black sweater. His finger pointed to what was coating her chest. "I know what that is—I know where this kid's been for three days."

He drove this time, more cautious than Catherine, to the child's neighborhood. "Remember the old lady—lived two doors down from the Cox house? She said she had been inside all day. What do you remember about the house?"

Catherine was peeved that he was putting her through a guessing game—and had taken the keys from her. "I remember an old lady." Suddenly, she remembered something else. She pulled her sweater away from her body and looked down. "Cats—she had cats. And this is cat hair from the blanket."

"Yep."

The old lady was waiting for them; Elena's backpack beside the door. "I knew you would come," she whispered after letting them into the house. She motioned for them to sit down and took a chair across from them. She straightened several things on the table before folding her hands into her lap. "They were always throwing things at my cats—wicked little children—and their parents just looked the other way." A cat jumped into her lap and she playfully scratched its ears.

"My white kitten was playing on the driveway—she came up the driveway and tried to pick it up. The kitten ran and she followed—right up into the carport, beside my car. She was yelling at my baby—chasing it around the car. I meant to hit her backside, but she turned and I hit her head. She fell against the car so I grabbed her and got her inside the house." As she talked, another cat jumped into her lap. "She's a mean little girl. She would've told her parents I hit her—not that she was chasing my kitten!"

Giving the little girl a sleep medication every six hours had kept her asleep for most of the time. When awake, she had been drowsy and confused and had drank water and juice when it was given. In the middle of the night, overcome with guilt and unsure of what to do, the woman had wrapped the child in a blanket, driven to the hospital and placed Elena on a bench.

Later, Catherine joined Grissom in the break room and handed him half of her sandwich when he passed her a bottle of water. "I needed to go by and check on Lindsey," she said as she sat down.

"How's she doing?"

"Good—growing every day. I think she'll walk before she's a year old."

"And Eddie?"

She laughed. "You know Eddie—he'll never change."

With a slight nod, Grissom agreed and smiled as he chewed his sandwich. He liked Catherine, thought her baby was cute, but her husband, Eddie, an amateur musician always claiming to be on the brink of greatness, was living above his means on Catherine's paycheck.

He glanced at Catherine and raised as eyebrow. "Have you met the new tech in the lab—the a/v guy? Young guy—Warrick Brown."

A/N: _And Grissom is growing his team! Thanks for reading! We want to hear from all of you who are 'silent readers'! And then we'll get Sara and Grissom together! Ratings will change shortly..._


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: And it is finally 2000-and this chapter is a teaser! Thanks for reading!_

**Fifteen Years**

**Chapter 5**

_2000 _

GGGGGGGGGGGG

Gil Grissom climbed the staircase instead of taking the elevator to the third floor apartment carrying three containers of food, and feeling a little foolish. Sara had recently moved into her new apartment; she was not expecting him and it occurred to him that she might be entertaining a friend. He stood at the door for a few minutes deciding she had not been in town long enough to have a male friend in her apartment. At least he hoped so.

He knocked, lightly, then thought she might be out—she would have plenty to do on her day off work—especially after he had marked her as "no calls".

The door opened.

She was wearing a simple pullover shirt in a bright pink and jeans; her dark hair was pulled away from her face which appeared confused for a few seconds before she gave him a broad smile.

She said, "Well, hello!"

"Hi."

Stepping forward, she placed a quick kiss on his cheek. "Come in." He held up the food. "Food! I need to eat." She kept smiling as she held the door open.

He stepped into the apartment and she closed the door.

Sara pointed to a small sofa. "Go in there and I'll bring—drinks, beer? Water? I'm still unpacking—my table is covered so we'll eat in there."

He followed her finger direction into the living room which was really an open space next to the kitchen. She had already made it comfortable, more than that; it was pleasing to be in the room. A small bookcase was in one corner with a desk beside it. Her sofa and chair fit the space. The window was open and thin curtains were moving with the breeze. Overall, it was a room he liked and very much a part of Sara's personality. He sat down just as Sara arrived with two bottles—beer and water—and two plates.

"Both, you didn't say—thank you so much!" She motioned to the food he had brought in. "I'm starving—did we eat at work?" And then she laughed, a deep throated sensual sound that caused his breath to catch in his lungs.

She did not notice his inability to speak as she opened a box, stuck her face above it and took a deep breath. "Oh, I love ginger beef—and fried rice." She opened the third container. "Wonton soup—bowls," she said and turned back to the kitchen. "It's like swallowing a cloud!" Her laughter came again but this time Grissom expected it.

He watched as she gathered two bowls, spoons, another bottle of water. Suddenly, he had a vivid picture of Sara—provocative as she bent over, sexy as she reached an arm, long and smooth, over her head. He could see her in bed as she was out of it: amusing, laughing, teasing, and willing for anything. Damn, he thought. She had this effect on him the first time they met and now he had brought her to Vegas. After all these months of phone calls and emails, he had thought he had overcome the erotic thoughts he had harbored since their first meeting. That had lasted until she said his name the day of her arrival; he was desperately trying to win the war—a day at a time. He had the idea that being around her, just the two of them today, would help, yet all he could think about was—s-e-x—with her—writhing within his arms. He dropped his head and tried to breathe normally.

"What are you thinking about?" She asked.

"Wor—work."

She laughed; somehow, she seemed to know he was lying. She brought everything to the low table in front of him and nimbly folded her legs and sat on the floor opposite him. He felt old sitting on the sofa so he pushed himself to the floor. She was pouring soup into the bowls.

"Why did you choose Chinese? It's my favorite—eat in or take out." She smiled as she placed a bowl in front of him.

He raised an eyebrow, amusement crossed his face. "San Francisco—the first time we ate together! You took me to eat Chinese at a wonderful place."

She reached across the small table for chopsticks and he wondered what she was wearing beneath the pink shirt—nothing, he thought—as the fabric hugged a curve. He noticed her hands—not for the first time; they were slender, graceful, delicate looking. Quickly, he glanced at his soup, trying to bring his mind to some neutral subject.

He did not have to say anything.

"I love that place—of course I remember!" When she leaned back, chopsticks in hand, her arm brushed his skin, a caress as gentle as a breeze. "The first time I went there I was fourteen." Using the chopsticks, she put beef and rice on her plate. "I thought the food was the most delicious, the most exotic flavors I had ever tasted—and I don't even remember what I ate!" She laughed again as she filled his plate.

Quickly, he said "How is your—your unpacking coming? Your furniture got here okay? Nothing broken?" He could ask about furniture—neutral—safe—unpacking boxes.

"Everything I own is in this apartment," she waved a hand. "And everything is good. I want to get all of it unpacked and put where it should be."

"That may take some time," he suggested.

She smiled, spooned soup into her mouth before she responded. "I hate to come home to a mess—I want things neat—so I can find things. I'll paint later—which is really not the way it should be done, but I'd rather have everything unpacked and wait on the walls. I can do those later."

Grissom leaned back against the sofa and drank a little water. "I could help you."

His words caused Sara to hesitate, and then she said "Thank you", uncertainty in her voice.

For a few minutes, they ate in silence. Grissom thought he had embarrassed her by offering his help. He said: "I could help you paint—later—when you decide on colors."

Her smile was quick, flashing across her face. "Actually, since you are here, and you offered, there is something I need some help with." Her eyebrows arched; her voice ended in an uplifting question. He would never tell her but with the look she gave him he would do anything she asked.

"And—that would be?"

Instead of answering his question, Sara told him a brief story—using her hands as she talked, all the while eating her meal with chopsticks—about buying bedroom furniture, something new and different from anything she'd ever had. The furniture had been delivered, set-up, and now she considered it was "wrongly placed".

"It's just not how I want to wake up—do you know what I mean?" She laughed as she told her story. "I thought I'd call the furniture store to see if they could come back—or just wait until someone offered to help…" Her look was a tease and he wasn't sure how to take it.

He nodded. "I'll help—we can do it."

Sara explained, "I got the set—probably too much for the room but I've always wanted a big bed! And two side tables—I don't need two, but they looked so pretty—balanced, I think—in the store. And the tall chest is so beautiful." She laughed softly as she talked, seemingly unaware of his reaction, as she told how she had tried out mattresses. "The sales guy was so funny when I started bouncing on the bed—he thought I was going to use it as a trampoline!"

Grissom kept his head down and kept eating as she talked. He knew if he said anything—the image of Sara on a bed was making it difficult for him to swallow—bouncing—he coughed and put his chopsticks down. "Let's see what we are doing."

She showed him the bedroom—and the bathroom; he knew why she had rented the place. The kitchen and living room were small, fitted into a corner of the building. But the bedroom and bath were as big as the kitchen and living room with an odd corner window near the bed. A long mirror and dresser sat along one wall, a chest faced the bed. The bathroom was as long as the bedroom with a large tub, a glass-walled walk-in shower—she did not say, but he suspected she had chosen the apartment for this bathroom. Full and empty boxes sat on the floor, on the bed, but in some systematic order.

"Okay," he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. He knew nothing about arranging a woman's bedroom. "What's your plan?"

Walking around the bed—and there was not much space to walk—she showed him. "The bed needs to be against this wall—away from the window. I sleep on this side." She stopped walking and looked at him. "Do you always sleep on the same side of the bed? I do—which side?" When he looked confused, she laughed. "Right or left from the foot of the bed?"

"Left."

"Which means we have to move the bed across the room. I think we'll have to take it apart. And then the dresser and mirror will fit better on this wall. Don't you think?" Suddenly she frowned, stopped talking and sat on the bed—right in front of him—her knees almost touching his. "This is a lot of work, Gil. You don't have to help—I'll manage just the way it is."

"No, no, we'll do it. It's not that much. Let's move boxes, move the chest, and the bed is bulky, but if we take it apart I think the two of us can manage it." He grinned and pushed up his sleeves. "I'm not going in tonight so we'll work until we are tired." He chuckled and lifted a box. "Then we'll eat more Chinese food and move more furniture."

The smile she gave him was his reward.

The furniture was expensive, well-made, solid wood. The bed was easy, bulky and heavy, but they got it moved. The only way to move the dresser and chest was to remove several drawers, and as Sara grabbed one drawer, quickly covering its contents with a shirt, he managed to glimpse lots of colors—silky bits of underwear. He looked away and as she tucked the shirt over things, he asked:

"Beer and a break?"

She nodded and when he returned, the contents of the drawer were discretely covered and she was tucking a sheet over the mattress.

Taking the beer, she giggled. The sound nearly pushed him over the edge he had been struggling to maintain for nearly three weeks. While her deep throated laughter caused a heated response that started in his groin and flashed to his chest and face, her giggle cause another response—it was not just heat. He knew what was happening—just as any boy in puberty learns—quickly he sat down—on her bed, facing away from her. His boner continued to grow—quickly—just from hearing a giggle; he put the cold bottle between his legs while he attempted to think of—anything else.

Sara sat down beside him, saying "You didn't expect to have to work when you brought food, did you?"

Tilting the beer bottle, as many women do, she exposed her slim neck; dumbstruck, awed with the simple beauty of her smooth enticing skin, the angle of her chin, the inviting curve of her neck, Grissom could not make his mind work—not to make a response—not a verbal one. And he knew his substantial erection would be easily noticeable.

Then she looked at him.

Instantly, a flood of memories filled his brain—of pleasure when his eyes met hers, of energy as she seemed to effervesce in his presence which gave him a sense of _élan_—confidence he had not experienced in a long time. He wanted—needed to know Sara Sidle better—intimately—he found her sexually attractive, more so than any woman he had met in recent years. He knew this before she came to Vegas; had known it the first time he met her. Sitting in her bedroom—on her bed—only inches separating them—words were on the tip of his tongue. The only thing he could think of at the moment was _I want you._

He had never confided his thoughts to anyone, yet as she looked at him, she seemed to know what he was thinking. He had known women but none had ever ignited a spark in him like this one. He managed to breathe; he had no plan of seduction, and he desperately wanted her to feel safe, secure, at ease with him.

He wasn't sure if his thoughts had lasted ten seconds or ten minutes.

Her head cocked to one side. "Are you all right?" Her dark brown eyes suddenly twinkled. Color rose up her neck and flooded her cheeks. "I shouldn't have asked you to help me with all of this."

He had to make his mouth form words. "I enjoy being with you." He made his eyes meet hers, "working alongside you." He opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind, and closed his mouth. He was unable to speak. _I want you_. He could not say the words so instead of telling her, he leaned closer and before he could stop himself he kissed her on the lips, lightly at first, and then, as she responded, his kiss became more intense.

When they parted, both sat still, each holding a beer bottle; neither had touched the other except for the kiss yet it had not been awkward.

"We—we shouldn't do this," he stammered.

"I know—you—you probably don't move furniture for Nick, do you?" There was a quiet, seductive laugh hidden in her words. Her dark eyes sparkled with flickering golden flames.

Her unexpected response caused him to laugh and he relaxed, slightly.

_A/N: The next chapter is ready-so read, review, and quickly the next chapter! Do you remember the flirty Grissom at the beginning of season one? We do! _


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: As promised, Sara's viewpoint! Remember, Grissom and Sara early in season one? Here they are again! Thanks so much for reading!_

**Fifteen Years**

**Chapter 6**

_2000_

SSSSSSSSSS

Sara's new place was perfection; in a quiet corner of a new complex. It was actually the second place she looked at—near work, secluded from the street, and—and it had a great bathroom. Plus it was near Grissom's townhouse. She smiled as she put things away; definitely the most beautiful bathroom she had ever had.

Her thoughts returned to Gil Grissom, her new boss, her friend and mentor for the past two years. When they met during a conference, they had a wonderful time in San Francisco, and then developed a friendship, a professional relationship—had talked on the phone, emailed, flirted occasionally, sent cards and research articles to each other, and still there was something—the word was intrigue—but Sara named it 'professional interest'. At times they had talked about working together; it had been easy to theorize and then he had called her. He needed her, he trusted her, she could be useful to him; his job situation had changed, he said. Could she come to Vegas?

She stacked several empty boxes, surveyed her work, and turned to another box. She had been the one to erect a barrier—maybe not a barrier, but certainly a boundary—on the day she arrived in Vegas and found Grissom in the middle of a case as body dummies were thrown from a rooftop. But her boundary wavered as he spoke to her with such wishful desire in his voice. They had managed to be professional, decisive and purposeful while working—most of the time. At times they had been flirty, without even trying, and the incidents had startled both of them, but they had laughed and moved on. So as she unpacked boxes, her thoughts continued to be on Gil Grissom—her new boss.

She liked him, more than liked him, she thought, but wasn't sure what came after 'like'. He was kind—she had known he was, and watching him work around others, she saw his actions to others as a form of kindness. He was funny, ironic funny usually, sharp and quick. She also found him attractive in a very subtle, sensitive, and intelligent way. Intelligent—she had not known many men who could surpass her in intelligence, but Gil Grissom did.

She could not help but wonder what would happen if they—she and Grissom—took their interest to another level. In San Francisco, it would not have taken much effort, but now she was in Vegas and he was her supervisor; that niggled in the back of her mind every time she flirted with him. She knew how a promising relationship could fizzle in a flurry of recriminations and bad feelings.

But Grissom was so honest, so considerate, she believed she would always know where she stood with him. She did not think he would play games with her—he was a thoughtful, responsible, mature man whom she knew respected her—and she respected him. And he was—she sniggered at her thoughts—he was hot—in the way of a brilliant absent-minded professor, and he always smelled clean, as if he hung himself out to dry in sunshine. She had emptied a box while thinking about Grissom and giggled again. He would wiggle his nice butt in a little secret dance, he would grin when some mischievous thought crossed his mind, he would make a very quiet flirty comment when they were alone—all of this he did without an audience, just for her. She was certain he did not send those signals to other women. Intuition told her she could get him into bed; intelligence told her it was not a good decision. He was her supervisor.

She sighed. Well, she thought, most of the time things worked out. As much as she liked him, and she knew he liked her, she would not push things, not yet. She would wait and see what happened between them. She punched a box with her fist and laughed. One way to take out her frustrations but she hated to go around punching boxes for months.

When she heard someone knocking, she expected it to be a delivery—she had ordered a new bedspread for her bed. Her bed—new furniture she had purchased with some of the money Ron Richards had given her five years ago. Briefly, she thought of Ron, gone for two years now, as she opened her door to find—Grissom.

He looked simply adorable in a blue shirt and jeans, appearing uncertain, timidly holding a white paper bag in his hand.

They laughed and ate while she told him about her new furniture and how she wanted to rearrange it; he offered to help. Everything was going great. They were friends, laughing and talking while they struggled to move the bed, chest, and dresser. He had disappeared to get a beer while she managed to cover up her panties and re-make the bed.

On his return, he sat on the bed and she sensed a change in the room—between them. A gentle golden light spread across the room from the afternoon sun, reflected in the mirror, and seemed to wrap a soft serene glow over the bed. At first she thought it was just the fading sunlight playing with her eyes but when she sat beside him, he leaned to her and kissed her.

She kissed him back. She had kissed him before—several times in San Francisco—but this kiss was different. Desire, hunger, lust all touched her lips as his mouth covered hers; she responded by parting her lips slightly before he backed away. She dropped her eyes and then she saw it. He was attempting to hide his erection with a beer bottle. And it wasn't small.

Her eyes met his. He said "We shouldn't do this."

And she caused him to laugh. Visibly, he relaxed—a little, but the bulge remained in his pants.

"Oh, Sara, I'm sorry. I've very sorry." His voice was filled with—what? Wounded pride, embarrassment, disappointment; she could not interpret his quiet tone.

Instantly, she decided—he wanted her as much as she wanted him. It must be lighthearted; it must be playful, she thought. He will never do this if he thinks I am serious about his intentions.

She reached for his hand. "Don't be." She took his bottle and placed both on the bedside table. Very gently, she placed her hand on his cheek and stroked his face with her thumb, under his eye, along his jaw, and to his chin. "If we do this, it stays in this room. We are two curious adults." Softly, she laughed. "Two somewhat" she glanced downward, "turned on adults, I think."

"God, Sara, I had no intentions of this happening," he said softly, barely above a whisper.

Sara still held his hand and brought it to her chest. "I know—I did not mean to seduce you with moving my bed." She leaned toward him and kissed him. Easily, his arm went around her and brought her head to his chest. She could hear his heart beating as she felt his lips against her hair; she could feel his warm breaths and held herself perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe.

Lifting her face, their lips met again. This time, he pulled her to him, their kisses increasingly passionate as he slowly lowered her to the bed. For a time, they lay together, kissing each other, forgetting everything outside of the bedroom, and discovering things about each other they had secretly wanted to explore.

She loved the way his hair curled around her fingers. She learned that he could laugh easily when she tickled his ear with her tongue. And the sound of his voice—husky, emotional—when he said "No one has ever done that before" caused her to giggle like a teenager.

Sara learned, as Grissom kissed her, that he was an extremely good kisser—not just on her lips—but on her cheeks, her closed eyes, her brow, her neck, her ears, behind her ears which caused an unexpected tremble. Even into her hair and against her scalp—his lips threatened to devour her. His hands played in her hair, loosening it as he pushed fingers through it. She wanted him, wanted to feel his hands all over her body like this. But she did not rush, she did not strip her clothes off, and somehow she managed to keep her hands above his waist. At times, one or both of them laughed, quietly, and once when she giggled, his response was so physical, she knew she had found the key to his passion.

Grissom pulled her close, fitting himself to her body, and Sara thought how perfectly they curved together; she was almost as tall as he was—their hips met, their chins touched, their arms wrapped in an unpracticed synchronization. She knew this was how it should be between a man and a woman as she let herself float on slow waves of pleasure. Grissom's mouth was back to her mouth, kissing her, letting his tongue graze her lips, and then he whispered, "I need to be responsible about us, Sara."

"Yes."

"I'm serious. Say no to me now because once we start, there's no going back."

Sara nodded her head. "I know."

He held her away from him, his hands firm on her shoulders, and looked deeply into her eyes. Sara realized his eyes, usually a deep blue like the sky on a clear day, had darkened with desire and it was for her.

Still gripping her tightly, he said, "For now, we need to stop—I'm not prepared to—to take this further. Not without—without—you know—we need to practice," his words stumbled out of his mouth "safe sex."

Sara dropped her head and bit her lip to keep from laughing. She sucked in a breath of air and looked at him. A smile played around her lips. Taking his face in her hands, she kissed him—because he looked so endearingly solemn.

"I have a gift," she said with a grin. "But first, I want you to believe I am not promiscuous—I won't tell you how long it's been, but it's been awhile since I've been with a man. So…stay here…" She crawled out of bed, where a moment before they had been tangled together, still wearing their clothes, ran into the bathroom, and a minute later, she was back with a small heart shaped box.

Holding the box next to her chest, she said, "Some of my co-workers gave me this on Valentine's day as a joke." She giggled. His smile was one of curiosity and puzzlement. She lifted the top. "It's not candy, Gil." She picked up one of the small brightly colored packages. "It's condoms! One hundred condoms!" She started laughing and selected another. "We can pick a color—orange, red, lime green—or," she spilled the contents of the box into his lap, "flavors, textured, even a night light glow!"

When she up-ended the box, dozens of condoms rained into Grissom's lap; Sara collapsed onto the bed, laughing so hard she hiccupped. Grissom rolled beside her holding a hand full of packages.

"Okay," he said, his deep laugh joining hers. "I'm sure I've never seen some of these—speed bumps, studded, night light—do I want to know all of this? Do I want to know how you ended up with all of these?"

She made a face, closed her eyes and picked one from the selection in his hand. "I told you—Valentines Day and female co-workers. San Francisco—home of free condoms! They were always worried that I did not have a boyfriend and wanted me to be prepared—just in case. So—I'm prepared." A giggle erupted as she held up the packet in her hand. "It's ribbed—now get your clothes off so I can get this thing on the right part of your anatomy."

A lopsided grin spread across his face; without saying another word, he peeled his shirt off, reached for her and did the same with her shirt, tossing it into the air. They hastily shed the rest of their clothing, and came back into each other's arms; this time they managed to wrap the sheet around their bodies but not before Sara got a quick glance of Grissom's naked body and silently admired what she saw.

When Sara looked into his face, she saw pleasure—her own desires reflected—in his eyes. He brought his hand to her face, traced a line down her cheek and across her mouth. Legs entwined; she felt the firm thrust of his erection pushing against her bare hip. His hands moved to cup her breasts and just before his mouth enclosed one nipple while his thumb gently circled and stroked the other, he mumbled, "You are a beautiful woman". She closed her eyes as she was engulfed in the heat that flowed from his touch. The thought of Grissom's hands on her body like this did not compare to the actual gently erotic act.

He held her, pressed her body along his, holding her within a protective embrace of shoulders, legs, and arms that made her feel she was floating. And always, as his hands and lips moved over her body, she felt the hardness of his erection.

"You have no idea, Sara, how long I've wanted this," Grissom whispered into her ear. His fingers brushed her skin with long soft strokes until his hand reached the triangle of chestnut hair between her legs and begin to explore her dark, wet center, fondling her small sensitive bud, reaching inside, stroking her gently yet firmly. His mouth was on her breasts again, sucking, licking her hard erect nipples.

"Gil—please."

"Come for me, Sara."

As his fingers continued caressing her, Sara moaned as her breathing quicken; she tried to pull him into her, but he would not yield. His fingers and mouth possessed her, drawing up a long flame as her body shuddered blocking out everything as her back arched, her entire body reacted as a flood of contractions rushed through her. And then he pulled away. Sara opened her eyes, suddenly feeling cold and alone without his body close to hers. But a moment later, she realized what he was doing and he was holding her again, moving to cover her body and Sara felt the wonderful warmth of his full weight upon her. She raised her hips and pulled him into her; her body moved with his as he sank deeper and deeper, rocking his hips in a slow dance with hers. Soft moans escaped from her throat as she matched his rhythm.

As she had known would happen, Grissom touched the core of her, filling her as she had never been filled, reaching to her heart. He slipped hands under her butt and brought her closer.

Silently, she cried _I want all of you_. Her heart pounded with his as he moved against her, caught up in the cadence of their moving bodies. Just as quickly as her first orgasm, another lifted her into a sudden frenzy of flight as she reached a peak of pure passion—wanting the ecstasy to last forever.

At twenty-nine years old, Sara Sidle understood that she had found her true lover; but she would not voice this certainty. It was too soon. It was enough to feel, to be alive, to enjoy him as he enjoyed her.

Finally, as breathing returned to normal, Sara looked at Grissom, cerulean eyes drowsy from recent exertion, and managed a lazy smile and said, "So that's how it's supposed to be!"

She felt the rumbling deep in his chest as Grissom laughed and when she looked at him, a quizzical expression on her face, he explained, "That's exactly what I was thinking."

They both laughed and kissed, playfully, once, then twice.

He arched his eyebrow. "One down, ninety-nine to go."

Sara began to laugh when she realized he meant the box of condoms.

Later, when their flurry of passion had diminished and their energies spent, Grissom held her in his arms, stroking her hair. Sara draped her leg over his; her head rested against his chest, a smile on her face.

"What is it?" he asked. "Why are you smiling?"

"I'm happy."

He kissed the top of her head and chuckled. "This is only the beginning."

Sara kept her voice light, laughter just below the surface. "Is it, Gil," she teased.

Shifting to face her, he said, "We're good together, Sara, very good. I enjoy every minute we are together and just now—you gave me such pleasure." His fingers brushed a lock of heart behind her ear. "And you?"

"Of course—you must know that!"

He smiled. "It's nice to hear it." His fingers remained on her face. "Only in this room," he whispered as he leaned to kiss her. "I can't promise anything except here, Sara."

Sara's mind raced; she must keep what was happening between them lighthearted, happy, very private, and not related to work.

"I think my new bed is perfect for this," she laughed as she kissed his chin. "I promise not to kiss you at work."

"I can't treat you differently."

"I understand."

They made no other promises, declared no expectations, expressed no verbal sentiments outside of the bedroom.

They were intelligent, private individuals who took pride in self-control and managed to keep their personal lives away from work—most of the time. Grissom arrived unannounced when riding a roller coaster did not clear his mind. After Brenda Collins was admitted to the hospital, Sara called asking if he could come; he was there in minutes.

All of their time together was not spent having sex—even though every time she opened her door for him, they knew where his visit would end. They read, watched movies, ate, slept, laughed, and parted as friends, never lovers. Kaye Shelton's case almost caused an estrangement, but by the end of it, they were friends, warming each other as they noted insect activity on a pig and, later warmed each other's toes in Sara's bed.

Grissom's behavior settled around Sara like a familiar cloak, warm and fitting her as if made for her. She knew she made him laugh, she knew she made him happy; what she felt for him could almost be love, but she did not want to think about that. It was too soon. It was enough to feel, to be alive, to enjoy him as he enjoyed her. Over the following weeks, they grew close, achieving something of a balance between their work and what happened in the apartment.

Grissom knew their situation was fraught for discovery and at times, he did treat her differently; he provoked or annoyed Sara at work, as a test of her tenacity, but in her bedroom he could never let her go.

But he was wrong.

_A/N: Thanks so much-next chapter will be 2005!_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: This was a good year for Sara and Grissom and GSR! Our story's date is vague-on purpose._

**Fifteen Years**

**Chapter 7 **

_2005_

Sara and Grissom stood together, close to the edge of a ravine, looking at the lights of Las Vegas in the distance. The brightest, tallest lights belonged to the Strip while all the other flickering glimmers appeared as peasant fires around the castle.

"We need to go," Grissom said, nodding in the direction of the ravine.

Lifting cases from the back of the vehicle, their hands touched and brought smiles to both faces. Without speaking, they side-stepped down the steep bank to where David Phillips was bent over a body. A night wind did not diminish the familiar odor of decomp. Sara's nose wrinkled while Grissom's never twitched. He glanced back at her and extended a hand; not that she needed it, but she took it because she knew he wanted to hold her hand.

They always worked well together but in recent months, one seemed to know what the other needed without words. They stepped around trash, over a dry ditch, and joined Dave as he retrieved a small wallet from a pocket and held it in their direction. Working around the body was so routine that Sara daydreamed as they collected evidence, checked the body, surveyed the surrounding area. It was a case like so many others—certainly homeless, probably hitchhiking, maybe prostitution, definitely drug abuse—no money on her, and dumped in a ditch after she was dead.

Occasionally, she glanced at Grissom—her boss, her best friend, her lover. She found it easy to name him as her lover, the man who was exactly right for her. _A coup de foudre_, she had named their first meeting—a lightening strike—how else to explain how she had known from the beginning, the first day she had set eyes on him and fallen in love with him.

Tonight, working in the ravine with the smell of a decomposing body in her nose, Sara could smile thinking of those first months in Vegas when they both thought they had grabbed the brass ring. By the end of a year, the brass ring had not tarnished—they had gone through dozens condoms—but the pressure of their secret relationship, maintaining two separate lives between work and her apartment—had caused conflict. Not in the bedroom, but difficulties at work—he wanted to control her. 'Keep you safe' he said. She cried in front of him at work. His visits to her apartment became less frequent until one night he said he had to think about 'this'. She managed to keep her chin from trembling as he left. Two days later, he returned with food, saying work responsibilities were overwhelming—he needed time and space.

She let him leave by smiling, knowing he would return and when he stayed away, she did not—could not—confront him with questions. She had no claim on him; no promises made but it did not stop her from knowing she loved him. Confusion, despair, and hurt had clouded her life for months; at times she had almost given up hope and then Grissom would smile at her, extend a hand, say something to her that would push optimism from its hidden chamber. And one day he came to her door.

Sara had climbed the embankment and walked along the highway searching while her mind tumbled back into the past—to images so clear, so vivid—she and Grissom together, of the months of loneliness when he did not come to her, weeks when he practically ignored her at work, and then she had heard him speak to a stranger—a likely murderer saying words he had never voiced to her. It had taken her a while to recover from his words.

Taking a deep breath of fresh air, she looked around and realized she had walked too far in the darkness. A patrolman was not far away, but the spotlights in the ravine were a faint glow from her position. She turned back. And now, they were together—as if they had never been apart. She smiled. Ironically, it had been her major breakdown in front of him that changed the stalemate.

"Sara!"

"Yeah!" She called, hurrying back up the highway and to the edge of the ravine. Several hands were extended to help Grissom with his load, but he was looking for her. "Here!" She took his kit and several evidence bags.

By the time they got back to their vehicle, almost everyone was leaving. Sara leaned against the back of the car and took another look at the city's lights. Grissom joined her.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

She smiled. "Not sure—I always like being away from all those lights more than I like being under them, I guess."

He made no response, merely looked at her closely before focusing on the lights. Suddenly, he pointed and said, "Let's watch—see how the sky is gradually changing? It won't be long until the sun comes up."

Sara met his eyes. She was surprised by their intensity—energetic, alert, filled with good humor—and life.

Grissom stood watching her for several minutes, saying nothing, keeping his hands in his pockets. He knew he had fallen in love with this beautiful girl at some point in the past—probably the day they met—with her long legs, sun-streaked brown hair, and those passionately intelligent eyes.

They made no move to be nearer.

"Its odd how life is sometimes, isn't it?" she asked, looking at him and smiling. "You think you're alone, and then someone comes, completely unexpectedly, and you're not alone any longer."

Grissom knew enough of Sara's history so he did not question her. Instead, he gave her a smile and turned to face the east, saying, "You never know what's right around the corner—or just beyond the next curve or over the mountain."

Someone shouted, called his name, and Grissom answered with a wave and "We're taking a break—go ahead!"

Once the sounds of the car died away, Grissom stepped closer and took Sara's hand. A smile spread across her face. He wanted to say something, but remained silent, and squeezed her hand instead. Sara glanced at him, grinned, and slid over to his side. He released her hand and draped an arm over her shoulders. Without a word, they watched as the distant mountains took a dark shape, a golden-red line appeared, and then the fire ball orange of the sun.

"The sun out does the Strip every time," Grissom whispered.

They continued to watch until Sara reminded him they needed to go. "The dead wait for us, dear", she said as she kissed him on his cheek.

Back at the lab, after a quick shower, Grissom went through a stack of files hoping to move them from his desk, but paid scant attention to what he was reading. His mind wasn't on work—it was focused on Sara who was down the hall logging in evidence from their dead body. Love, he thought, had evaded him for so long that when it arrived, he was startled—no, he corrected his thoughts—he was scared to death. But this rare, odd feeling, which he had tried to ignore, was so strong, he felt bound to pursue her; thought his feelings would change if he worked with her, became her friend. And he very nearly lost her.

Shifting several file folders, he found the one he sought. The case was closed. Desert State Mental Hospital kept their criminal patients behind locked doors and razor wire fences and one of their nurses was now in prison. Yet he kept the file on his desk—as a reminder, he thought. That night had changed him. He passed his hand across his face and glanced at his watch. Almost end of shift and things were quiet. He pushed files together, suddenly impatient, stood up and stretched.

"Time to go," he said to the empty office. Leaving the office, he hurried down the hall and found Sara. When she turned, he felt a jolt of pleasure at the sight of her—and when she smiled, he felt a rush of excitement. She had pulled her hair back after her shower and dark curls feathered around her face. "There you are!" He made a hand motion, pointing to his chest. "Food?"

"No, I'm not hungry—not yet," she said, smiling. She nodded her head. "I'm almost finished."

That was all he needed—a private signal between lovers. She would be at his place before he arrived with food and her response of "not yet" meant he should buy food for later.

"I'll see you later." As he stepped into the hall, he heard her low laugh. There was something comfortable about having Sara in his house—if only for a few hours.

When Ecklie had sent her home, threatening to fire her, Grissom had knocked on Sara's door and heard from her the tragic story of her family. He already knew about her mother; he had known within weeks of her arrival in Vegas. He would never ask but he knew there was a well of sadness in Sara—had seen it when she worked a violent case, had seen pain of victims mirrored in her eyes—and saw her scared soul as she revealed the story of her parents.

He determined to do what he could to ease her pain, chase away the sadness if he could; he was sure he could if she would give him another chance.

It had taken a mad man to make him realize time would not wait for him to have a meaningful relationship with the woman he loved. He had not closed his eyes for sleep until he had decided to make amends and within hours he took food to her apartment, knocked on her door, and walked in with an apology on his lips.

This morning, making a quick stop at a grocery store, he collected several favorite fruits, a soft cheese, bread they both liked, and a box of ice cream. He'd treat her to a grilled cheese sandwich and ice cream. Once she walked in the door, she would realize she was hungry—like sleep, the woman could go for hours without food and then plow through the refrigerator like a bulldozer at a landfill.

When he got home, she was waiting—watering the herbs she had planted for him—and smiling as soon as he opened the door.

As usual, there was a twenty second realization that they were alone, safe from prying eyes. He hesitated, but Sara was moving in his direction before he could close the door.

"I've been waiting."

Her words were the most welcomed, appreciated words he had heard all day. She was in his arms instantly, her arms around his neck, their passions rising.

In a voice thick with sudden emotion, she said "I've missed you."

Grissom kissed her again and promptly forgot about a sandwich. Together, they tossed food into the refrigerator, turned and walked to his bedroom where, he noticed, the bed had already been folded back. She had been waiting. Easily, he pulled her onto the bed—on top of him—and kissed her just for the pleasure of doing it. They were so careful at work, so cautious about contact, afraid someone would notice their secret, that in private he wanted his hands on her immediately.

Weeks before, Sara had insisted, "Not so much a secret as privacy. I don't want to be the subject of lab gossip. I don't want people to think you treat me differently—and they will, even if Catherine is my supervisor." She had snuggled against him, wedging her body between his and the back of the sofa. "Besides, I like this—just the two of us."

He had agreed; the two had been quiet loners for year. No one expected either of them to arrive at a party and stay until it ended. So very quietly, they were learning about love.

"You know I love you," he whispered as his hands pushed through her hair, loosening the last long locks from her ponytail.

"Even when I smell?"

He chuckled "You've always smelled perfectly wonderful to me." He kissed her again, gently rolling so he could circle her with his arms. His fingers began with the top button of her shirt and as he unfastened the first one, he leaned over and kissed the freckles on her chest. The second button revealed the cleavage of her breasts. "Ahhh," he breathed as he found the front clasp of her bra and caused her to giggle as he attempted to devour her—first with repeated kisses, and then as his lips moved, using his tongue as lightly as a feather in some places, baring his teeth against her skin, burying his nose against the softness of her breast. And his fingers stayed busy with her buttons—first her shirt, then the snap of her pants, and then the zipper.

She laughed as she made a quick turn that put them facing each other and easier to remove clothing. Grissom's shoes thumped to the floor. This was the beginning, he thought, as her hands went to work on his shirt at the same time he was pushing her's off. He managed to pull his undershirt off while she was taking off her shoes and socks. Still wearing her pants, she scrambled out of bed and heading to the bathroom.

"BCT" she called, reminding him of how careful she was about certain things. She was adamant about 'her birth control thing' as she labeled the diaphragm. She was also on a low-dose birth control pill—with a back-up in case of failure, she said. And with their crazy schedule, he knew she was right—a missed or late pill might bring on ovulation.

She was back, almost immediately, wearing a silky black robe and holding the thin round object in her hand. "Okay, stun muffin. This one's got a rip and I didn't bring another one!" She tossed it onto the bed in his direction and made a quirky face. "You are doing this on purpose!" She said with a laugh. "Second one in—what? Two months?" She crawled back into bed as he held the object to the lamplight.

"Hmm—it is ripped—inferior product! Or worn out! I can cover with a Kimono," he laughed as he tossed it away and pulled her into his arms, cupping her butt with both hands. "I love your ass—I love your honey pot, I love your mouth and your ears. There's not an inch of you that I don't love." His hand went under her short robe. "I don't like this thing."

"You are the only person I've ever known who calls a condom by its brand name!"

With a chuckle, he said, "Years of high level reading and research—everyone knows what a condom is, but only a few of us know the difference in a Trojan, a Durex, a Kimono or a Kling Tite."

As he reached for a condom, her giggles were an aphrodisiac to his ears. By the time his hands wiggled her black panties to her ankles, his erection had grown to flag pole status, bobbing around so furiously he could have twirled a plate on its head. Once he had told her she had opened a door he had successfully managed to keep firmly closed for many years—and she had unlocked the beast inside! While working he could close this into a compartment, but here—with Sara, together in bed, her body heated with desire as much as his—he was a raging bull—and could not get enough of her.

His hands sought out her soft curves and velvety folds. Hungrily, he kissed; he touched her with his tongue. His fingertips traced invisible lines to erogenous places—behind her ear, underneath her arm, circled her breasts, playing a private symphony of desire. His passionate attentions brought her to the cusp of organism as delicious tremors pulsated around his fingers.

"Gilbert!" His name from her lips was more an expression of approval than complaint.

He slowed his motions, giving her a brief recovery, kissing her deeply as he scooted hands under her butt and brought his rigid penis firmly to her warm, wet entrance.

"Say it," he whispered, "say you love me." He playfully coaxed her in a familiar game they played during sex.

"I love you—I love you—I love you" she sang into his mouth.

When he gently pushed into her, he gasped with relief. She fitted around him so tightly, so fluidly, like a cashmere glove, yet his entire body seemed to be pulled into this pulsating whirlpool of Sara. To the count of ten, they held each other in perfect stillness—and then, as one they begin to move in the glorious rhythm of sexual passion.

Sara had learned most of her sexual encounters had been mere child's play as Grissom played with her body. Foreplay was not jerking her damp panties off, yelling 'blast off' or 'coming in' and two minutes later it was over. No, Grissom stroked, caressed, touched her in ways no one had ever done. A rising crescendo would build in her body as he kissed her, tickled her lightly with his tongue, blew sweet breaths of air on her vulva that caused her core to send a flame from head to toe.

He was her lover—hers, sculpted to fit her form in a way that continued to startle her. As she reached for her orgasm, realizing what was happening, he slowed, pulled her back for a moment's recovery, demanded—husky, passionate—pleading for her to say three words. Their secret.

Then sensation, passion rebuilt, climbed, her nerves rebounded with twice, three times the intensity as he entered her body—filling, fitting, fucking her with such passion she would scream if his mouth had not been locked over hers. Yet they were not wildly physical—the act was not abandoning all senses to be caught up in purposeless actions. Gently, sweetly, quietly, surprising passion came to each—a thumb grazed across her nipple, her fingers caressed the small of his back. When her climax exploded in a rain of fireworks, his arms and legs held her as she undulated on a tsunami of emotions.

Waves from her body pulled him in, sucked breath from his lungs, liquid honey from his body—the sweetness, the golden glow, the warmth of her nectar rolled him into oneness with her that he had never experienced with another woman.

A while later, he said: "Move in with me."

He felt her response as a muffled hum against his neck.

"Why not? Simplify things."

Sara's head moved enough to free her mouth. "I need my own space—so do you."

Her fingers moved to his mouth and, lightly, provocatively, her fingertip explored his lips until he pulled it into his mouth. She touched his teeth, his tongue in a slow sensual plundering way that caused a surprising erotic response.

Her knee was snug against his groin; neither moved but she felt the strengthening stiffness as his penis grew. Carefully, slowly, her finger withdrew and she began a slow path from his mouth to chin, neck to chest. Taking longer, she drew circles, loops, unknown designs along his abdomen, tingling touches that sent flames from his spine to his brain.

Lifting her head from his shoulder, she began to kiss him, her lips and tongue completing what her finger had begun. She wrapped him against her hip; his free arm pulled her upward, his hand caressed her backside until he could reach the cleft of her butt. By the time her long fingers slid into his wiry mound, his hips were lifting from the bed, his erect penis throbbed with such intense force he thought he would climax within seconds—and then her fingers pressed against the hidden area behind his balls. His moan became a breath as his reaction slowed, briefly. Quickly, Sara shifted her hips, straddled his thighs, and in one smooth fluid motion, she was on top of him, he was inside of her, her hands were in his hair, and in rhythm known to both, they moved together.

As she came, so did he—holding her butt with such force that he caused fingerprint bruises—evidence she pointed to later.

When they had been drained of passion, exhaustion made them limp as old rags, Grissom whispered again, "Live with me, Sara." When she made no response, he added, "Stay with me—don't leave."

She nuzzled her nose into his hair. "I snore."

"No, you don't."

"I've been told I do."

"Not by me," his laugh came slowly, rumbling from his chest.

"I like to read if I can't sleep."

His quick laughter came again. "I sleep with the light on—sometimes I work when I should be sleeping." His hand circled around her waist. "Stay—let's fix breakfast before going to work."

As he spread his fingers across her belly, he felt her relax.

She said, "I'll stay."

_A/N: Now that you've read 7 chapters, please leave us a review-**everyone**, not just our favorite and very loyal readers who always review! This means y-o-u! even if you've never done this before! Thanks...and 2 or 3 more chapters for this story._


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: 2010-what were Sara and Gilbert doing all that year? Not many clues so we gave them an adventure, sort of! Enjoy! Next time-into the future...10 chapters will end this one. And for 'Criminal Minds' fans-a bit of a shout-out to the show!_

**Fifteen Years**

**Chapter 8**

_2010_

_Sara and Gil Grissom_

Carefully, Sara pulled into a parking space, got out of her car, hurried around to the passenger side where her passenger was already stepping out. Automatically, she said "Let me help" but she was ignored. Looking away from the car, exasperated, she muttered "why do I even try?"

Her passenger turned to face her, fingers moving rapidly. Sara smiled and signed, "again, please, slower."

Her mother-in-law, Betty Grissom, smiled—or made her lips move in a semblance of one. More of a grimace, Sara thought, as the older woman begin searching in her purse. A five dollar bill appeared and Betty stuffed it in Sara's hand. Sara recognized the word "park" at the same time her phone signaled a message.

"Okay," she signed and then checked her phone. "He is here," she said and held her phone so Betty could see it.

Betty frowned, smiled, and repeated Sara's message in sign language.

"Okay," Sara repeated the most often used word for her signing and headed in the direction of the terminal. She had learned Spanish, she had learned passable French, but learning American Sign Language was proving difficult at best. Her teacher said she needed more practice but since Betty was continually correcting the smallest mistake, most of Sara's signing consisted of simple words or phrases. Her teacher had explained that Sara's habit of using her hands when she talked carried over into sign language creating an odd or unknown word to the conversation.

So, Sara worked—signing to her husband who usually reverted to smutty sex words—or with her mother-in-law with results like today—corrections, continuous corrections.

As they entered the building, she touched Betty's shoulder and pointed to the sign for arrivals. Betty pointed to 'Baggage Claims'.

Sara's response of 'no bags' caused a flurry of hand signals of which Sara recognized "no bags…a week…you…" and something else that probably said Sara was a poor wife. Reluctantly, Betty had accepted Sara as the wife of her son, but Sara knew her mother-in-law did not really approve.

They had to wait several minutes before husband and son appeared. Sara had decided he could be as surprised as she had been when Betty arrived as she was leaving for the airport. An unannounced visit, with a friend dropping her off, planned to coincide with Grissom's return, Sara suspected. Sara could count on one finger other unplanned visits of her mother-in-law.

"Gil" she whispered seconds before he saw her—his arm lifted in a wave—and then he saw his mother.

Carrying a bag in one hand, a book in the other, there was an awkward moment as he contemplated who to greet first and how. Sara got his kiss; his mother got a one-arm hug. Sara took his book and his bag.

Grissom signed and spoke, "How did my two favorite women manage to be at the airport?"

Smiling, Sara whispered, "Surprise! And there's lunch planned."

Grissom was laughing as his mother's hands flew in conversation. "Slowly," he interrupted her. Shaking his head, he said as he signed, "No—I'm sorry—we will not join you for the foundation lunch. We talked about this."

His mother continued signing as Sara watched. "Important lunch…meet my colleagues." Sara looked away. If she had interpreted correctly her mother-in-law had stepped over the line by telling her son what he was going to do. She stuck Grissom's book under her arm and placed her hand on his back, feeling the hard tension developing across his shoulders.

He stopped walking, touched his mother's shoulder and signed rapidly without speaking—so fast Sara was lost by his second sentence. She watched Betty—a frown, definitely upset, and just as quickly her face softened and a smile appeared. She nodded in agreement before glancing at Sara.

Whatever had passed between mother and son was gone as quickly as it had flared.

At the car as they put his bag in the back, Sara asked, "What was that all about?"

He chuckled, leaned over and kissed her longer and more forceful than he had inside the terminal. "I told her she was not to make plans for us without checking with you—and we'll take her to dinner tomorrow night. Right now, I need sleep." He kissed her again, "And to be with my wife."

"Did you say the last part?"

He grinned. "I did—it made her smile—and it's the truth."

By the time Sara drove Betty to the college where she worked, dense and crawling traffic had stretched their drive to over an hour. Leaving his mother satisfied with dinner arrangements, Grissom settled into the front seat, closed his eyes, and said, "I am exhausted, babe." His hand came to rest on her leg. "A week of bug experts and I'm talked out."

"Sorry about the unexpected pick-up—she arrived just as I was leaving."

His hand patted against her thigh. "My mistake—I told her the time. Lunch was not mentioned. She's fine—she has to remember I am not her little boy."

Sara laughed. His mother had been in Las Vegas for three years and had not forgiven two things—no, three things—Costa Rica, Paris, and their quiet wedding.

"And how is your mother doing?"

After exhaling a long breath, Sara said, "Same. She would forget to eat if not supervised, but otherwise—she's okay—the same. She's drawing now—an artist."

Surprised, Grissom opened his eyes, saying, "Is she an artist? I didn't know that."

Irony laced her laugh. "She isn't, dear. She just thinks she is."

His hand moved from her thigh to knee, fingers providing a light massage. "It's a lot to deal with, Sara."

"Not any more. She's in a good place, good people. Better than any place she's ever lived." She gave him a smile. "Thank you for understanding." He nodded and relaxed again; his eyes closed.

As she drove, she felt Grissom's hand relax on her leg. She braked for a slow moving truck which blocked two lanes and then traffic stopped. She swore, flipped the air conditioner to high and turned to look at her husband—who was asleep.

As she sat in traffic, she thought of her mother, Laura Sidle, diagnosed years ago with schizophrenia and now residing at Bennington Sanitarium in Vegas. Sara had little contact with her mother for years—institutionalized by the state of California after killing her husband. Then Sara had gotten a phone call as the only living relative—her mother was scheduled to be released. Sara had gone to California, met with strangers who knew her mother better than she did, researched how to care for a woman who had not been in a grocery store for two decades, and found a group home that became Laura's home. That worked for a while, but as she and Grissom were beginning life as a married couple, Laura had a relapse—which became a permanent decline.

She glanced at Grissom, peacefully sleeping, as traffic inched along. She wanted to lean over and kiss him, but decided to let him sleep. She had three days off, so she would wait. Her thoughts returned to her mother. The offer to return to her old job, coming from Ecklie after they had gone to Paris, had convinced her it was time to move her mother to Las Vegas. Looking back, she knew the decision had been the right one for both of them; it was much easier to visit her mother and she did—every week—but only rarely did her mother recognize Sara as her daughter.

At a traffic light, Sara turned right; traffic was slow, but she managed a left turn on a clear residential street and ten minutes later, hit the garage door opener. As the door closed, Grissom woke.

"That didn't take long."

Sara laughed and shook her head. "No, it didn't. You shower—I'll fix food. Then you can sleep again." She kissed him and ran her fingers through his hair—longer and curling over his ears. "And you can tell me all about your insects."

"What if I take a shower, you get in with me, and for a while we forget about food and insects?" He laughed deep in his throat and kissed her.

"I knew I married you for your excellent ideas."

They had learned to be leisurely in their lovemaking—using the shower as a "warm-up" they talked as they caressed and laughed as their passion grew. They forced themselves to move to the bed, damp arms holding each other. Sara fell onto the wide bed, leaning back as Grissom knelt, kissing her wet belly, moving his head between her thighs as his hands slipped across her moist skin. She let herself float on slow waves of desire as he played his tongue on her sensitive flesh; small shocks of sensation swept through her like iced vodka and warm honey, transforming her body into a fluid line of feeling.

She sensed movement as he suddenly lay over her and thrust inside her, gently rocking his hips as her legs wrapped around his thighs. He moved within her, then raised himself so the tip of his penis caressed her small bud, and then he plunged into her again so their bodies seemed to lock together. Again and again he rocked until the threads of Sara's body gathered in a knot and flew apart, giving her the ecstasy she craved.

Grissom's breathing was as rapid as hers as his hands slid down her spine. He kissed her throat, her earlobe, her forehead; he pushed fingers into her damp hair and continued kissing her face. When he looked into her face, he saw wonder and passion and as he continued to rock against her body, he knew she had reached a point of no return. The need, desire, and joy merged in an instant as he murmured her name against her mouth, their bodies moving together, and within them the same thought came—everything was perfect and would be forever.

They fell asleep for awhile; their hands were together, their legs twined. So in the first moments of waking, before opening their eyes, they seemed to move together, encircled tightly in each other's arms. Slowly, they came awake to the afternoon light in the room and held each other for a long quiet time, drifting in warm closeness until desire flickered and grew like a small ripple far out in the ocean that gathers force and becomes a thundering wave. As desire built, they moved even more slowly, holding back to draw arousal out like a long swell moving to shore, lifting passion until they rode its crest and swept onto the sand. The results were a somnolent embrace similar to what had been, drowsy yet wakeful

Grissom could not keep his hands from exploring the curves of her body. "I miss you when I'm gone—do you know how much?"

A smile spread across her face. "And I miss you, dear." Her hands caressed his face. "And where are you going next?" She knew his confession of missing her meant he had discovered another bug to study.

He rolled and snuggled against her, propping his head on a bent arm. "How much time off do you have?"

"Not much—two weeks plus a few days. Why?"

He pushed a curl of hair behind her ear. "Go with me—two weeks. We'll have fun."

"Where? You know I'm not big into bugs."

He chuckled. "You'll like these—they are dead. Been dead a long time." He reached for the sheet and tucked it over their shoulders.

"Where?"

"Drumheller, Alberta in Canada."

Sara's eyes widened. She had no idea where Drumheller was; she knew Alberta was north of Montana. But her dislike of bugs made her leery.

She said, "Tell me more."

He grinned. "In Drumheller there is a paleontology museum—Royal Tyrrell Museum of Paleontology. And not far from there researchers have discovered a field of fossils—lots of insects. We could go for a couple of weeks."

Sara twisted her mouth into lopsided grin. "My vacation would be spent—what? Digging in dirt?"

"Yep—say you'll go," he said as his hand moved from the hollow of her neck downward. "We'll have fun. You're an expert already." He shifted his body so his chest covered hers. "When I told the researcher my wife was a crime scene investigator, he nearly leaped across the table." A smile broke across his face. "It seems he's had good experience with CSIs volunteering at his digs in the past." He kissed her nose, then the space between her eyebrows.

Sara narrowed her eyes. "Have we already volunteered?"

"No!" He kissed her again. "But it's only a phone call away—what do you think?"

Two weeks later, Sara watched as the bright green terrain drew closer to her window and was gradually replaced by the outlying landscape surrounding the Calgary airport. She glanced at her husband whose eyes were glued to a book.

"It's beautiful—so green!" Sara said. "And flat—where are the mountains?"

Grissom looked up. "West side, I think." He looked across the aisle, pointed a finger and said "There."

After landing, they picked up a rental car and then drove north; according to the GPS the drive was ninety minutes northeast.

"Big sky takes on a new meaning, doesn't it?" Sara said as they drove. "It's even a different color of blue."

The mountain range in the distance, white with snow, disappeared behind them and Grissom said, "We'll go one day. We can't spend every day sweeping away sand and gravel."

"Where is this dry valley?" Sara asked. "Everything is so green—and goes on forever."

Grissom shrugged. "I looked at pictures—big deep valley with exposed geological strata." He glanced at his wife as she drove, wind blowing her hair, a healthy blush to her cheeks. "Thanks for coming. We'll have fun."

Sara smiled. "As soon as we find that dry valley—and Drumheller."

An hour later they were still seeing vivid green fields. Houses and barns were few and far between; they could count traffic on one hand. An occasional oil well pumped slowly in the middle of a field.

"Are you sure we're going in the right direction?" Sara asked. Her affectionate laugh sounded like a musical symphony to his ears. In his mind, she was perfection.

Grissom chuckled and pointed to the GPS. "That thing says we are."

"Oh! There's a sign!"

The highway curved into a downward slope and suddenly they were in a valley—a very long gorge carved below the flat terrain of the prairie. As the road turned again they had a view of the town of Drumheller spread across the floor of the valley—trees, buildings, completely surrounded by tall rocky cliffs.

Sara was the first to speak as she slowed the car. "It can't be more than a mile wide."

"It's long," Grissom said. "Well! We just dropped off a plateau and fell into the canyon!"

In a straight line across the valley, the distance was a little more than a mile; it's length almost seventeen miles. Clumps of bright wild flowers spotted the road side with color, but the gray, red, and orange of the cliffs reminded both Grissom's of mountains around Vegas. There were few straight lines; the cliff face was uneven as broken teeth with piles of dust, gravel, and broken rocks every few steps. Yet, people were everywhere—climbing up and down the valley walls, walking along the highway, shopping, eating, working in this hidden low-lying land.

"Wow!" Sara said as she slowed to a stop. The GPS voice gave directions. She turned.

The town was small, old, and heavily involved in two industries—agriculture from the number of tractors and farm equipment on display and tourism. Every third sign and building advertised 'Dinosaur Valley'.

"Here's our place," Sara said as she turned into a paved, dusty parking lot.

The low building before their eyes had probably been a motel back in the fifties, but was now a 'research center'. A long wide porch ran along the front, which faced east. Windows and doors were spaced in a regular pattern between trellises where flowering vines grew. Chairs and tables were scattered around the porch—empty in mid-afternoon.

Grissom pointed. "Down there—an office."

They were expected; a key and a folder of information waited on the desk of a woman who introduced herself as Diane Foster.

"Your unit is the last one—on the end. Cleaned and furnished with bare necessities. You'll need to shop—there's a map and coupons in there," she indicated the folder. "And welcome to Drumheller. Dr. Adams has talked about you non-stop."

The phone rang but before she answered it she added, "He will be back around seven tonight to talk with you, so be prepared to go out tomorrow." She smiled, answered the phone, and waved as she talked to the caller.

In a few minutes, they had unloaded luggage and opened the door to find a small apartment in a narrow definition of the term. Everything was in one room except the bathroom and closet at the rear of the room. Left of the door was a small sofa, a table with two chairs, and a door into the bathroom; right side was the bed and an efficiency kitchen along the wall.

"Well, at least we have one bed," Sara said with a laugh. She bounced onto the bed. "No noise, pretty comfortable." Her nose wrinkled. "Smells like bleach."

Grissom laughed. In the camp in Costa Rica they had shoved two cots together and any movement caused a racket of creaks and groans. And for Sara, the bleach smell was a good thing. "And a nice refrigerator," he said as he walked across the room and pushed the ice dispenser button. "And we have ice!" He opened cabinets while Sara stepped into the bathroom.

After several minutes of checking the contents of the kitchen, putting clothes in the closet, and making a short list for food and other items, Grissom asked, "Well, Sara?"

Sara answered with a soft laugh, "I am the most fortunate of women, Gil."

He stood in the center of the small space and held out his arms. "And you are the light of my life and the joy of my existence."

She burst out laughing and went into his arms for a very adoring hug.

"Let's go for a walk—see what's around us," he suggested.

After their flight and time spent in the car, they were ready to stretch their legs. Grissom pulled a map from the folder and in a few minutes, he was pointing to a trail. "A trail along the river—we'll check out the largest dinosaur in the world."

Their path cut through a section of downtown, through a park, and followed the Red Deer River, and along a long curve, they found the famous dinosaur. Kids were running out of control around the giant statue; Sara and Grissom watched from a distance, and turned back.

"Food," he said. "Around the park, I know I smelled a hamburger."

After eating, they found a small store selling what they needed and walked back to their temporary apartment carrying several bags. Several other vehicles were in the parking lot and Sara noticed the picnic tables among several trees.

"How many other volunteers are here?"

"Only four including us, I think—for the fossilized insects. The big dinos get all the attention."

As they discovered the next morning, excavation of fossils, even small insect ones, was an act of destruction—and similar to a crime scene. Dr. Adams had discovered and uncovered a small portion of the area the year before; the summer volunteers were spread across several hundred feet of parched-looking land. After a brief introduction to the process, Sara and Grissom were smiling and Dr. Adam was handing them a bag of small tools used in the process.

"Make precise measurements, lots of photographs, and thorough sifting. We don't take everything we find, but we do want a record," the researcher explained.

Few tourists found their way to this area of fantastic rock formations in Horse Thief Canyon with its multiple twists and turns and dead ends extending in all directions; the trail was barely a path and sheer cliffs were almost vertical until they arrived at the site. Most visitors found the area stark and forbidding, no tree or flower disrupted the layers of gray and white rock. The air was still and very warm; the only color was the blue sky overhead.

Grissom and Sara spent the entire day, switching from brushing away dirt and stacking small stones to sifting while both took photographs. Several times, Grissom's whistle brought Dr. Adams over—the man could move like a goat along the walls of the canyon. They found an overabundance of fossils—coral, crinoids, a small dinosaur tooth—but no insects. Late in the day, other searchers found a wing no larger than a fingernail impressed into rock.

As it was passed around, Dr. Adams said this was the kind of thing to look for. "Complete insects are rare; the veins and bands on the wings are like putting your hand in wet cement. It makes an imprint for us to find!"

Covered in dust, the group hiked back to where vehicles had been left, drank all the water remaining in their packs, and headed back to Drumheller. Sara learned the purpose of the picnic tables on their return; beer and junk food appeared and the dusty, tired group talked until the sun was gone from the valley. When someone mentioned dinner, Sara quickly declined the invitation; she knew she was exhausted and so was her husband if he took a few minutes to think about it as he listened to the story of finding a dime size _Lemmatophora _complete with body, wings, and legs in the area they were searching.

Sara was amazed at how fast each day passed. She had thought it would be routine, somewhat boring, and she would tire of the bleakness of Alberta's badlands. But the rocky barren canyon changed continually through out the day with the sun. What had appeared as a vast, barren landscape presented plants and tiny flowers in crevices and in the shadows of rocks. On their second afternoon, they visited the focal point for tourists, the Royal Tyrrell Museum, and saw the results of years of work in the area.

On their fourth day, Dr. Adams asked if Sara would work with two new arrivals, young men—college students, she thought as they approached. Each dressed in the latest from REI, complete with walking sticks, expensive backpacks, radiating an atmosphere of immature confidence. She hid a smile as Jeff and Mark introduced themselves and Dr. Adams marked an area for them to excavate.

Within minutes, she realized she was working with a very young Greg—times two. The boys, she learned, had grown up as best friends in a small town in Georgia. After five years of pleading, begging, and attempts at bribing parents, they have been given tickets to Calgary and a rental car to Drumheller to volunteer on one of the dinosaur digs. Dr. Adams had agreed to take them on because he knew one of their college professors.

Their interest was dinosaurs, not insects, but those groups had volunteers signed up for years in advance—so they had wrangled their way into this group. As Sara watched Grissom and Dr. Adams head into the canyon on some vague trek, she knew her husband had something to do with the new volunteers being left with her.

"Okay, guys, this is how this works," Sara said as she handed Jeff the small scoop and several brushes and to Mark she handed the sifter. She kept the camera.

The guys were hard working and quick-learners; in several hours they had stacked, swept, and sifted a two by four foot area and had a small pile of fossils which they had examined as closely as one would a unique find. And Sara knew everything about them—from kindergarten sand box stories to college lab experiments.

They laughed when Sara said, "I know you guys—you're geeks! I've heard all your stories and not once have you mentioned a girlfriend!"

The boys snorted and laughed. "Jeff had a girlfriend—once!" Mark said.

"Well, it beats having Jessica McCade following me around like a stray puppy!"

Before he had finished his sentence, all three heads turned. Others spread out along the cliff had stopped working and were looking in the same direction.

"Its Grissom," Sara whispered and started running in the direction of the shouting. A minute later, she saw him jogging along a sloping path. Whatever was making him hurry was definitely not an emergency but all the same, everyone was running toward him.

He stopped, wiped his perspiring face with his arm, grinning from ear to ear. "Bring your packs—we've found—we've found something pretty spectacular."

There was a scramble to pick up backpacks and cameras before gathering to follow Grissom.

"What have you two found?" Sara asked.

Grissom grinned. "You have to wait!"

The group followed a path winding across slopes more suitable for goats than people and if possible, the scenery became wilder and more spectacular. After almost an hour of strenuous walking, Grissom stopped so everyone could sip water.

"Not much farther," he said, pointing to a ridge. "Just over that ridge—hop, skip and jump!"

It was more of a scramble, slip and stretch once they were over the ridge. A narrow canyon stretched north, the ground littered with fallen rock and loose dirt and gravel. From the end of the valley, they heard a shout.

Dr. Adams waved from a perch about thirty feet above them. "Crawl, climb up any way you can—we've found a big one!"

Somehow, everyone managed to get up the steep cliff and there, under his hands, was the cleared jaw of a dinosaur. A very large jaw—with squared teeth still in place. Speechless, everyone watched as the researcher went back to brushing away more dirt.

"It's a big one." He nodded at Grissom. "We've uncovered this much of its head and down there is more—sixteen feet, right?"

"Pachyrhinosaurus," Mark said, awed reference reflecting in his voice. "There's one in the museum."

Someone else said: "Several skulls and bones were found in a bone bed north of here."

"There's never been a complete adult found," Dr. Adams said. "But we think we've uncovered the jaw and part of a hip."

In a voice filled with amazement, Jeff said, "Thick nose lizard—1946, Charles Sternberg found the first one."

Sara watched the group as they crowded around Dr. Adams, like priests around the pope, she thought, as he wiped away more dirt. One of the men picked up a handful of dirt and put it in his pocket. She caught Grissom's eye, smiled and made a fast funny face. She stepped around everyone to get to his side.

"How did you find this?"

"We were scrambling around and literally tripped over what Dr. Adams says is the hip bone. He's into insects now, but 'cut his teeth' on these big guys. I thought I'd have to haul him out of here in a body bag the way he was jumping around."

Sara chuckled, softly. "Which one is it?"

Grissom waved his hand over his head. "Big one with that frill flat thing on its head—plant eater."

She lowered her voice to a whisper, "Never knew any of them except a T. Rex and then only from _Jurassic Park_!"

No one's excitement died down as they followed Dr. Adams instructions to place markers around the site. Using several maps, they managed to locate the right canyon and marked the map as well. On the walk back, they were asked not to reveal the find or location.

"This is significant," Dr. Adams cautioned. "Fossil thieves would be in here over night for what we've found—helicopter them out before the right people can get in here."

The small group was jubilant even after cautioned; a story to tell for the rest of their lives, Dr. Adams clarified, but not yet, not today or tomorrow, and keep the location vague. That night everyone ate together, a secret celebration of an event that would not be made public for months. No one mentioned the very large jaw fossilized in a remote gulch of Horse Thief Canyon as pizzas and beers were passed around the table.

The surprising discovery had an unexpected effect on the small group searching for insect fossils. The next day, and the following days, they became a team, swapping workplaces, learning from each other, excitement in their voices as small fossils were found, a few excavated, dozens photographed.

As they packed their belongings on their last night, Grissom took Sara's hand and pulled her into a two-armed hug. "You've had fun?" he asked. Her nose and shoulders were covered with tiny freckles even though she had used sun screen every day. The long necklace he had found in a local shop looped around her neck, the golden amber nugget hung between her breasts. He had watched her fingers caressing the smooth rock as she had packed.

"I have—I've enjoyed being outside and with this group," she laughed. "And I've learned a lot about digging for dinosaurs—little ones, big ones."

"You are beautiful, dear." He kissed her, softly on her forehead, pulled away and looked into her dark eyes. "What's wrong? It's in your eyes."

Sara slumped against his chest as his arms wrapped around her. She shook her head. "I—I'm disappointed, I guess." She took a deep breath and raised her face, kissing him on his bearded jaw. "I was hoping—you know—this might be the month."

"Sara," Grissom's voice whispered against her face. She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry."

Within days of arriving in Costa Rica, the weeks spent in Paris, and then the well-timed visits after she returned to Vegas, they had thought it would be easy—month after month they had been proven wrong.

Soothingly, Grissom's hand stroked her hair. "It will happen, honey. All the testing says we're good." He kissed her again and playfully wiggled his hips against hers. "Smoke on the rooftop means fire in the furnace."

She answered with a muffled laugh. "I love you, Gil."

Effortlessly, their heads turned, their lips met.

_A/N: Thank you for reading._


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: If you've been reading, you know what will happen in this chapter. By a strange colliding of dates, in 2015 Sara Side will be 44 years old. Gil Grissom will be 59 years old. When William Petersen was born, his mother was 44 years old; when his twins were born, Petersen was 58 years old. We did not plan this-it just worked out. _

_Hope you enjoy this chapter!_

**Fifteen Years**

**Chapter 9**

_2015_

Sara looked up as a shadow covered her book; the shadow belonged to her husband who was pushing back the hat on his head, smiling at her with an easy infectious smile.

Years ago, their first encounter had been inside a large room with a hundred people surrounding them and he had made the same smile. Since that day, Sara had told herself that all the little cells of her body had lifted and stirred in the knowledge that here he was—the one she had waited for, the one that caused a funny catch in the vicinity of her heart—or at least she believed it had happened that way—and the smile caused the same reaction today.

Gil Grissom offered her his hand, tugging her up, and didn't let go even when she was standing firmly on her feet. Touching her cheek with his fingers, he said, "Sara" in his deep low voice. His fingers slid beneath her chin and, with a smile on his lips, he leaned to kiss her.

"I love you," he said simply after he finished the kiss. His fingers remained on her chin and his hand held hers. "I should have married you fifteen years ago."

Sara arched an eyebrow. "Yes, you should have." She smiled and teased, "And instead of this, we might have a teenager."

If possible, his grin broadened as he brought his hand to her round belly. "That thought is kind of scary—well, this is scary, too." He kissed her again. "Are you ready?"

She knew Grissom was referring to leaving the sandy beach, not the outcome of her pregnancy. "I am if you are." She laughed as he made a little head nod toward their canoe. He helped her into a life vest and buckled the front and then held the canoe as she stepped into it. She did not have to look back to know Grissom waited until she was seated before he pushed the boat's nose toward the river and smoothly slid into the rear seat. A few pushes with their paddles and they were through the eye of a tiny needle slot and into the river and another few movements had them in the river's current.

At times verbal communication is necessary, but today there was no need to talk as the two floated down the Colorado River with a current strong enough to keep the canoe in the center of the flow. At times the river spread out and met rocky beaches softened by small trees, then turned and entered a tunnel of towering cliffs that looked like they had been cleaved by a blow of an ax. The silence was so peaceful that Sara pulled her paddle out of the water and listened to nothing at all.

The silence was broken by Grissom. "Here," he said, pushing an old float cushion toward her feet. "I can take us in—maybe thirty minutes to go."

Without saying anything, Sara carefully shifted her body so she could sit on the bottom of the canoe with the cushion under her butt. She stretched her legs in front of her and propped her feet on the front edge of the canoe; her back resting against the seat.

"Thanks. Perfect," she said as she settled into her new position. She laughed, "Do you remember the first time we did this?"

Grissom chuckled. "I do—and the second time and the third time. You learned to love me out here."

She laughed again. "No, dear, I already loved you when I agreed to come."

He knew she was right. She had loved him from the beginning—he was the one who had not known what to do. Paddling enough to keep the canoe in mid-stream, his mind drifted back over recent years. Sara continued to work at the crime lab giving them a sense of stability in Las Vegas as he had traveled to far-reaching corners of the globe. She would laugh and say she was working to provide insurance but he knew she wanted—needed the schedule of work and a real place to call home.

Two years ago, the university had offered him a research-teaching position, short-term, for one year, but he was on his second annual contract and the funding was stable. Luck or wise planning, with their surprise package arriving in a few months, they had purchased a house in one of Vegas' older neighborhoods and now Sara planned to take an extended leave.

Paddling several times, he maneuvered the small boat to keep it from drifting near several boulders the size of houses. Sara did not move; he stretched, trying to see if she had fallen asleep. Her hands lay across her belly, her head crooked to one side.

Softly, he said, "Sara" and got no response.

He sat with the paddle across his lap, smiling, and shook his head at the reality of life. They had been so naïve when they married, thinking because they did nothing to prevent a baby they would have one. After six months, fertility testing found nothing obvious to prevent pregnancy. Sara agonized for weeks about fertility medications; they talked to fertility experts and read everything they could find.

And they learned how expensive treatments were.

One afternoon as they watched an old movie, Sara paused the film and said, "I think my window has closed, Gil. I don't think I'm going to have a baby. Will it break your heart if it's just the two of us?" Her voice sounded as if she was telling him the weather forecast and he wondered how long she had practiced before saying the words.

He had reached over, taken her hand and said: "No, dear. We'll be fine."

Months later, she revealed what had caused her to say what she did but that day he knew he did not want to see her sad. He surprised her with a trip to the Galapagos Islands so she could show him the footsteps of Darwin. They worked, laughed, loved each other, and gradually no longer talked about having a baby; instead, they turned to their family of friends, who they had known for years, settling into a calm, loving, and somewhat predictable life.

Three months ago—it had been a Wednesday—he had returned home, to the house they were moving into, and found Sara sitting at the small kitchen table, surrounded by dozens of boxes. She was holding a piece of paper and when he walked in, she looked up with a strange, startled expression on her face. She waved the paper in his direction, tried to say something, and choked as tears filled her eyes.

In an instant, he thought of a death—but death did not come on paper. By the time he reached her, he saw the physician's name across the top and thought of cancer. Except what he saw in her face was not fear or apprehension, but a kind of astonishment or surprise.

His concern evident on his face, she managed a breathless laugh. She said his name: "Gil," as she held the paper. "Forty-three years old, Gil. I thought I was going into menopause." More tears came; she tried to laugh. "But I'm pregnant—we're going to have a baby."

He heard her phone ringing before his ears stopped hearing it; his eyes seemed to be looking down a long tunnel with Sara's face at the lighted end of it. Somehow, he managed to sit down—as he was sitting when his hearing returned.

"When?" he asked. His thumb wiped a streak of moisture sliding along her cheek.

"February, I think. Around Valentine's Day." She gave him a watery smile.

He frowned. That could not be right, he thought. "Due? When?"

She laughed realizing her mistake. "Oh—October." She looked at the paper still in her hand. "It doesn't say—but I think that's what the nurse said."

"What else did she say? Are you okay?" He chuckled. "A baby—ours—ours." Abruptly, he laughed. His brain was clearing. "We're having a baby! A baby!" His palms cradled her face. "Us! A baby!" He kissed her, wiped tears away, and kissed her again and both of them began to laugh.

Sara's phone was buzzing again. She picked it up and looked at caller ID. Frowning, she said, "It's the doctor's office," and answered.

Grissom watched her face as she listened. Her frown turned to a smile and she agreed with whatever was said.

"I forgot to make another appointment—I think I was in shock when I left."

That was when she had told him about her suspicions of early menopause, of erratic periods for months, and how she had put off visiting her physician until three months had passed without a period.

Grissom glanced up with a jerk when he heard voices and realized he was almost at the takeout point. He paddled the canoe so it turned toward the shore where several other canoes were already pulled to dry land. As soon as gravel scratched the bottom of the boat, Sara lifted her head and looked around.

"I went to sleep!" She said as she sat up, pushed herself to the seat, and grabbed her paddle to serve as a holding anchor in the sand and gravel.

Boating on the Colorado River was a tourist attraction with limits. Business was slow today yet several old school buses, converted for hauling boaters back to the parking lot waited as people gathered their belongings and filed onto the first bus.

Sara checked her phone as the bus drove out of the canyon and listened to a message from Catherine Willows.

"Catherine's in town—she wants to see us," she said as she tucked the phone in her pocket.

Grissom had his head against her shoulder, his eyes closed; his response was a soft "humph".

Catherine had been gone from the lab for three years—more correctly, she worked all over the country while Vegas remained her official home. Several times a year, she called everyone to meet at her house for dinner.

Grissom's hand came to rest on Sara's belly. "Have you told Catherine?" He knew Sara had been selective in announcing her pregnancy and only recently had most of the lab employees learned of it.

"I have not—I wanted to see her face. And I'm pretty sure no one else has," she laughed. "Everyone knows it's hard to surprise Catherine."

He laughed and snuggled his head against her shoulder. "You should wear the red shirt."

Surprised, Sara turned so quickly, Grissom's head fell behind her shoulder. Her husband never mentioned her clothes—not those worn outside of the bedroom that is. She asked, "Why?"

"Cause you look beautiful—and pregnant," his laugh sounded like a school girl's giggle. "I can't wait to see her face!"

By the next afternoon, Sara had heard from everyone who was going to Catherine's and they all wanted to be in the room when Sara walked in. They had been friends for so long they knew it was difficult to surprise Catherine with anything—and like Grissom, they wanted to see her face for this one.

The day was warm with bright afternoon light that seemed to gleam off the edges of everything. Sara did not hurry Grissom as he dressed at the last minute and, at the last minute, she decided to gather a few of the flowers growing around the patio. The elderly couple who had lived in the house for forty years had developed a beautiful garden using native plants as a canvas with brush strokes of brightly colored perennials. Sara clipped a dozen blooms—she knew a rose by its name, but none of these were roses.

"I'm ready," Grissom announced from the doorway. He smiled as she turned around. "You look great." He wiggled his hips and lifted his eyebrow. "I was exhausted last night, but today—I'm…"

Sara giggled and finished his sentence, "horny?"

His smile was one of seductive suggestion. "I'll always be that way around you."

"Even when I look like I swallowed a pumpkin?"

"You don't look like you swallowed a pumpkin!"

"I will by October!" She said as she wrapped the flowers in paper.

Grissom chuckled. "You'll be a beautiful woman and you'll never look like a pumpkin." He kissed her and took the flowers. "Does anyone else know our secret?"

She shook her head. "I can't decide if—how—when I should tell everyone. Maybe I shouldn't—let everyone be surprised."

Frowning, he said "The doctor's said you'll probably have to take early leave."

"Maybe we should make the announcement today," she grinned.

"Let's go."

Later, Catherine laughed as she related how odd it was for everyone to arrive early—Grissom and Sara uncharacteristically late. And how everyone had backed away—cleared a path—when Grissom opened the front door and held it for Sara who walked in with a bunch of flowers covering her belly.

Quickly, Sara looked around Catherine's beautiful house, saw everyone there, watched as Catherine walked toward her, and with six or seven feet between them, Sara held out the flowers.

"From our yard, Catherine." Sara said. "And we have an announcement to make!" She smiled, her grin spreading across her face as she watched her friend's face.

In an instant, Catherine's jaw went slack as her eyes processed what she was seeing. Sara's tight fitting red shirt was pulled over her abdomen showing an unmistakable outline—a shape most women recognized. She stopped before reaching Sara, her arm stretched to take the offered flowers; she choked. "A baby? You're having a baby?" Then, swiftly, her arms were around Sara and both women were laughing. Catherine caught Grissom before he could get out of arm's reach. "Did you do this? You! After all these years!"

Everyone was laughing as Grissom held up his hand. "Catherine, not only did I do this to my wife, but we've done it…" He folded two fingers and thumb to his palm, making a peace sign—two fingers. "Its not one—we're having two!"

There was a moment's silence as everyone processed what Grissom had said and what his upheld fingers meant. Then an uproar followed as the men saluted with 'high fives' and fist bumps, slapping his back as if he had won a race. Several hugged Sara, but then the women separated, moved into the kitchen, and the questions, comments and advice flew back and forth.

Catherine asked the obvious ones: "Due date? Have you had amniocentesis? Have you had all the tests? Do you know what you're having?"

"I have and everything is fine—two little wiggling babies in there—each one growing. And no, we're going to have a surprise. The doctor has actually blacked out any reference to gender."

"C-section?"

Sara's smile managed to hide her thoughts; she knew Catherine was not just prying but truly interested. "I'm planning on having a normal delivery—actually waiting until I go into labor." She saw the glances between several of the women. "If I can," she laughed. "I'm a bit late to all of this and I'm pretty certain I won't do this but once."

"You'll be fine!" Catherine insisted. "I did not know a thing about birthing babies when I had Lindsey!"

Later, as Sara undressed, Grissom stretched across the bed with Hank sharing his space. "What was all the girl talk in the kitchen?" he asked.

Sara laughed. "All the usual—questions, comments, suggestions—it's funny how babies make everyone so excited." She slipped a shirt over her head and joined him on the bed. "I think they are more excited than I am—I'm excited, but I think I'm more…" she grimaced, "I never thought this would happen for us, Gil." Her mouth remained down-turned for longer than necessary.

Grissom knew she worried about things he never thought about. Pulling her into his arms, he chuckled. "The men think I'm a stud."

Sara's mood lifted with the sound of his voice. "Hank needs to leave," she mumbled. Her giggle filled his ear. "Judy Robbins said we would not have time for sex for years."

Laughing as he led Hank into the kitchen, Grissom said, "Doc and Judy have three kids!" When he returned, Sara held his phone.

"Your mother called—left a message." She read from the screen, "Call me for lunch tomorrow."

He took the phone and placed it on the bedside table. "I'm not interested in my mother right now—her lunch will wait." He crawled into bed, lifted Sara's hand and kissed her palm. "Are you sure this is okay—doesn't hurt anything?"

Sara gave a quiet laugh. She found a sense of comfort and security by sinking into her husband's arms. He kissed her, gently at first, and then deepened it as she responded. Sara returned his kiss as greedily as he kissed her. As their lips came apart, she said, "You know sex during pregnancy with the father of one's baby seems to prevent eclampsia—which is a good thing." She kissed him, willing him into making love and he responded.

His hands were urgent, simply pulling his shirt over his head and doing the same to her. His mouth lingered, kissing, tasting her as heat seem to engulf his body and flow with his touch. He kissed her tangled curls, her smooth skin, the delicate eyelids that hid her dark smoldering eyes. Moving, kissing, taking her lower lip between his teeth, and then, still hungry, he kept his mouth against her skin as he progressed to her neck, tasting the fragrance of the soap they had used when they had showered. His hands explored the curves of her body, her spine, the crest of her hip and the new rise of her belly, his caressing hands slid to her thigh, opening her folds with his fingers, sliding into the wet darkness within.

Abruptly, Grissom stopped caressing her and raised himself on his elbow, covering her sex with his palm as he looked down at Sara. His desire for this woman had never diminished—if anything, it was greater now that she carried his children.

With a slight tremble in her voice, she asked, "What is it?" She tried to see his face but it was all shadowed.

"Oh, Sara," he said huskily. He kissed her again, prolonging it until they had to breathe. And then he was as urgent as she, almost savage in his need to be part of her. Sara's thighs opened with a delicate pressure from his knee and his erection was probing the damp throbbing entrance to her body, a force seemed to pull him inside her, steadily pushing, filling her until he begin to move, slowly within her. He rocked against her as flames shot along his spine to his brain and he was no longer capable of conscious thought.

Afterwards, they lay quietly for a time, letting their bodies relax in the warmth of their lovemaking cocoon. Sara floated as if in a dream; she loved her husband with a passion that astonished her with its intensity. And she was terrified—how could a woman love one person so deeply, so passionately—and in a few months, she would have two babies to love. How, she worried, would she be able to love their babies and keep this strong love for her husband.

Grissom shifted, his hand caressing her face. "Yes?" he asked, as if he read her thoughts.

"I love you."

He put an arm beneath her shoulders. "I love you, dear." His hand moved across her chest and caressed her breast, not erotically but with a soothing embrace more kin to massage. "I know you're worried, Sara. It's in your eyes." He leaned to her face and kissed her. "We'll do fine, honey. Most people do—babies are born and fed and diapered and grow into teenagers." His warm laughter caused Sara to smile. "Now I'm worried more about teenagers—two at the same time!"

She sighed deciding to reveal one worry—not all of them; she would never burden him with all the things running through her mind. "I'm afraid I—I'm afraid I don't know how—how can I love these babies like I love you? How does it all fit in?"

"Is that what's worrying you?" His soft laugh warmed her skin. "It's there—we have the capability to—to love in dozens of ways." She heard a deep rumble in his chest. "I've known for years that you love Greg, but not in the way you love me." His voice deepened, "Better not be, anyway."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Sara, I will always love you. I love our kids and they are not even born! This is a big project—a big change for us. I'm fifty-nine years old and soon to be father to two babies. I'm—I'm sort of scared shitless!" He laughed and pulled her tight. "We'll figure out most of it—the rest won't matter."

The weeks went by with surprising swiftness and by the time Sara reduced her work schedule, she thought she was ready to sit with her feet propped up until something happened. Her belly did look like a pumpkin, she informed Grissom.

"I still love you," he said as he placed breakfast before her. He pulled his chair out and joined her at the table. "Are we ready?"

"I think so. We've finished our list—the room is ready." She patted her belly. "We're good to go—but we need to settle on names."

"Not Gilbert."

And then Catherine arrived.

Sara and her mother-in-law, who was thrilled to be a grandmother in her eighties, had set up a basic nursery in a small room adjacent to the master bedroom. The former owners had added it onto the house as a small sun porch so Grissom had covered the windows with blinds and they had furnished the space with two small beds, a small chest and a rocking chair.

Catherine called as she was driving to their house saying: "I'm in town for a few days…must see you, Sara!"

Grissom let her in; she was carrying several shopping bags. "Go get the others, will you? I've been in New York City and all I wanted to buy was baby clothes!"

Sara had gotten up and started toward the door. "Catherine, what did you buy?"

"These babies need clothes! I went shopping, Sara!" She piled four large bags on the sofa. "Go ahead, start looking!"

Grissom entered the house with more shopping bags. "Catherine! What is all of this stuff? We got diapers and gowns."

From one bag, Catherine pulled out two packages. "Well, I had to buy two of everything—and you know what I learned? A lot of new parents don't want to know if they're having a boy or a girl, so there's all these beautiful pastels and whites!"

Grissom sat down, pulling Sara beside him. His mouth hung open in stunned astonishment as Catherine kept pulling baby clothes from her bags. He glanced at Sara and saw a similar look on her face as more clothes and blankets—things he did not have a clue of their purpose joined the stack on the table.

"This is too much!" Sara finally managed to say.

Catherine waved a hand. "No! And if you have girls, you and I are going shopping! All of this is gender-neutral to six months sizes!" She pulled two soft stuffed animals from the last bag. "Can I see your nursery? Are you ready?"

"We are—waiting for," she laughed, "whatever comes next." Grissom tugged her to her feet and kept his hand on her back as they gave Catherine a ten minute tour of their house.

"And here is the nursery," Sara waved her hand at the former sunroom turned baby room.

The adults in the room took up almost all the floor space, but Catherine managed to turn, running her hand over each bed and the chest. "It's perfect."

Two days later, Sara rolled to her side early in the morning, pulled herself up to sit on the side of the bed and realized she could not see her feet. She stretched her leg in front of her and wiggled her toes before she stood. And fluid ran down her thigh. At first, she watched as the trickle became a stream and reached the wooden floor. For days she had felt a change, a crampy knotting of muscles across her pelvis, and now the true evidence of impending labor. Turning, she saw Grissom sleeping soundly and decided to let him sleep while she showered. But as she reached for a towel to wipe up the trail of fluid, what she knew was a true contraction hit her; she gasped and leaned against the wall. More fluid ran down her leg. A few minutes passed before she caught her breath, took the towel and headed back into the bedroom.

Grissom met her in the doorway. "What's wrong?" His face filled with such concern that he looked fierce.

She took his hand and smiled. "I think you are about to be a father."

In a relative short time, they were in a delivery suite with more nurses around them than players in a poker tournament. Yet it was quiet as an ultrasound was done—both babies were head down, Sara heard that. Fetal monitors were hooked up; a very solemn looking physician explained the epidural procedure. And through all of it, Grissom held her hand.

Without warning, a gasp broke from her causing her to gripped Grissom's hand with a strength he had not known she had. "Damn," she gasped. "So much fun…making it…them."

"Breathe, remember—all those exercises?" He grinned.

She grimaced. "I thought this epidural blocked the pain."

"Is she all right?" he asked a nurse checking one of the machines.

"She's fine—hang in there. You're both doing great."

Sara made a sound that was part groan and part laugh. Together, they counted and breathed, and everything around them faded away and voices merged and changed until contractions were so close the whole world seemed to be the beating of hearts—strong rhythms that came from within Sara's body, from the monitors attached to her body—and the doctor was beaming at her. Grissom's face broke into a wide grin; his face relaxed for the first time in hours.

"A boy—a boy, Sara." Grissom whispered against her ear.

The tiny infant cried and stretched arms and legs as someone placed him on Sara's abdomen. Her fingers met Grissom's as they both touched the wet, wailing baby and for several minutes they were speechless as they examined the infant. And then Sara's work began again, only this time it was much shorter and less than a half-hour later, she delivered her second son.

Names of their own, Grissom had insisted but Sara was adamant—both boys would share his name. After all she had been through, he relented. Carefully, she printed on the two forms: _John Gilbert Grissom_ for the first born, and _William Gilbert Grissom_ for the second.

The infants' grandmother agreed the names were perfect but, she signed to her son, "Why John and William?"

Grissom's fingers moved quickly, answering her question. "Mother, of all people, you should know." His fingers continued moving as he quoted: "_A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases…" _

Betty Grissom smiled; years ago she had introduced her son to the poetry of John Keats. She nodded her head, knowing the author of the words he would speak.

"_Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind,"_ he quoted.

_A/N: What did you expect? Grissom loves poetry! One more chapter!_

_And thank you to those wonderful people who review-you know the work involved-the rest of you are a puzzle to us! _


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N:**Last chapter! Hope you enjoy this chapter! Enjoy! (And we honestly did not get this idea from another show who did 'flashbacks' this week nor did we write what happens in this chapter after Catherine's last episode!) All our ideas, just using CSI for names of our fav characters! _

**Fifteen Years**

**Chapter 10**

_A family_

"Gil," Sara gently nudged her husband. "Gil, did you hear that?"

Gil Grissom grunted, turned, groaned groggily, and lifted his head from the pillow. "What?"

Sara, always a light sleeper, was already scooting across the bed. "I heard something." She reached for her robe and was out of the bed in seconds.

Grissom moved slower. "Stay—I'll go."

She was already around the bed, patted his foot, saying "I'm up—I'll go." She raked her hand through her hair, tied her robe, and opened the door. With four kids in the house, ages eight to thirteen, someone was always getting sick or getting something to eat or drink in the middle of the night. And sometimes the older ones were reluctant to wake her up even if sick.

From a short hallway, she entered the living room where a full moon cast a soft glow of shadow and light. Listening carefully, nothing seemed out of place as she crossed the wide room, instinctively avoiding furniture, checked the kitchen, and entered another hallway that led to additional bedrooms. The door of the first room was open—the room was a library of sorts, lined with bookcases and assorted chairs. She eased the door open of the next room—two forms appeared to be sleeping soundly—amid the accumulated book bags, shoes, and discarded clothing of her daughters' lives.

Her daughters—Sara paused just to watch them sleep—simple delight causing her to smile in the darkness. The girls had arrived unexpectedly at ages one and six when John and Will were five. She was still working and arrived at a horrific highway pile-up of a dozen vehicles, most mangled become recognition. A small young girl had been pulled from one of the cars and as the EMTs tried to comfort her, one called for Sara's help. In the confusion, no one had understood the crying child's plea for "my baby" until Sara realized she was asking about her baby sister.

After a frantic search among the dead and living, the baby sister, only a year old, was pulled from one of the cars, still buckled into her safety seat, unharmed, and smiling when the rescuer handed her to Sara. Hours later, a social worker for child protective services called Sara and said: "You and Gil are on the list—can you take the two little girls? A few nights—I'm sure there are relatives."

A few nights had turned into a month; the girls had no relatives. Gemma and Geena had become daughters, sisters to John and Will, proving that family did not mean blood, eye color and genes. She smiled as she quietly closed the door; she could not imagine her life without the two girls.

The door to her sons' room at the end of the hall was tightly closed and as she placed her hand on the door knob, she heard her husband behind her in the kitchen.

"All quiet?" he asked.

She nodded as she quietly pushed the door open. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and, as she quickly glanced around the room, an unusual movement, a pinpoint of light, brought her around in a quick half-turn. In an instant she heard a sound, saw a light and felt something hit her shoulder.

She made a cry of pain; her hand flew to her shoulder as her brain tried to process what she had seen with the pain she felt and by some instinct she knew she was bleeding. Pulling her hand away, she felt dampness, saw a dark wet fluid on her fingers, and then dimness, and immediate, total blackness…

"_Mom?" _

"Yes, dear."

"Mom, what are you doing here?" Sara was confused. Her mother had been dead for years, yet she was bending over Sara as her soft fingers brushed against Sara's cheek.

"Look who else is here." Laura Sidle's mouth was moving, her voice sounded as Sara remembered it. "We're fine—just watching after you."

Sara's dad appeared—a young man, exactly as she remembered him on a good day all those years ago. "Hey, honey. It's good to see you."

"Dad?" More confused than ever, Sara tried to move but felt she was tied with heavy weights to the floor.

Her father seemed to sense her struggle, and gently, helped her sit up. "I'm good, Sara. No more drinking; your mother and I are having fun watching you." He laughed, warmly, very much as she remembered. "You're having a great life, honey. We love you, Sara. You're a great mom!" He smiled again and as he did so, his face seemed to fade, replaced by Janice Roberts, the foster mom who had treated Sara as a daughter, and behind her, two more faces formed—Janice's husband Ronald, and son, Ron.

"I don't understand," Sara said. Her mind tried to recall what she had been doing to have this crazy dream.

Janice laughed as she seemed to understand Sara's thoughts. "You think it's a dream. But life is never a dream, is it. The best thing we ever did was take you into our home." The kind face laughed again. "And I see you are still using our little kitchen table—every time I see you working in the kitchen, I think of the hours we spent there. I'm so proud of you."

Ronald, an old man of seventy when Sara lived in their house, had not aged. "You are as smart today as you were the day you graduated from high school, Sara. And you've passed on those smart genes. Now don't be too angry about what's happened!" He chuckled and stepped away.

Their son, Ron, who had died before Sara moved to Vegas, gave her a 'thumb's up' signal. "You've done well, Sara. I'm not around much, but I hear all about you from Mom and Dad." Ron turned his head and suddenly, a boxer was licking Ron's face. "Hey, Hank—the first. You got here too!"

"Hank? Hank One is here?" Sara was more confused than ever. This had to be a baffling dream for Hank to show up with Ron when the two had never met in life. Just as suddenly, she was kneeling and petting the first dog she and Grissom had ever owned. Their current dog was Hank Three.

An unfamiliar voice said: "Thank you for all you did, Sara. I never got to live the rest of my life, so I've sort of taken yours on as my own." Startled, Sara looked up at the well-dressed young woman, recognizing her face.

"Pam," she whispered. "Pam Adler."

A smile broke across the woman's face. "I knew from the first we could be friends. I just didn't imagine you would remember me all those years—all those visits." She laughed, softly, lighter than Sara would have expected. "When I realized I could see you, watch your life, I was so delighted. It's been such a joy to see you—I was so happy Grissom found you; you got to see Paris! Have babies! And now you laugh with your own family." She laughed again. "You have your hands full, don't you?"

"Pam—I—I could not—did not help you and Tom! What about Tom?"

"Tom is fine—he watches his brother's family a lot or he would be here. He did what he had to do that day. And it wasn't long before he joined me and we're happy—very happy. It's a happy place."

Sara made a sound—grunted she thought—and attempted to stand. Hank was gone, as was Pam Adler. Another woman with pretty red hair was sitting beside her; for a moment, Sara had no idea who this person was, then realization hit her.

"Gemma and Geena's mother."

The woman smiled, saying, "I gave birth to both, but you're their mother. I had to leave my girls and I could not have left them in better hands. Fate, divine intervention, luck, whatever put you in their path was a wonderful act." Her fingers touched Sara's shoulder. "This will be over soon. You'll laugh again. But I wanted the opportunity to say thanks. You did not have to take my girls and I'm forever grateful. I'll be around—watching, making sure they learn the right things from you. You're a good woman, a good mother, Sara. Thank you."

Sara nodded. She was beginning to understand what was happening. She was being visited by ghosts in this dream; after so many years of dealing with the ghost of her father and the phantom of an absent mother, she had finally set herself free and now all of the meaningful people in her life were returning to her in a very unexpected yet comforting way.

"Why?" Sara asked, "Why are you here? Why is everyone here?" She must be dying, she thought; why else would she be seeing them?

Then a beloved face appeared, a beautiful grin on his face, green eyes sparkling, and the red haired woman disappeared as quickly as she had arrived. She tried to lift her arm to touch his face.

"Hey, Cupcake!"

"Warrick! Warrick! How? What's happening?" She knew this was a dream; it had been years since she had dreamed of him.

"You are going to be fine, beautiful! Look at you—I always knew you were beautiful and now—in your fifties, right? You don't look a day older than when we roamed the streets together!"

"Warrick, why am I having this weird dream? What happened?"

He laughed the laugh she had never forgotten after all these years. "I can't tell you right now but everyone's running around taking care of things and you needed a little distraction. So we came—all of your old friends. Even your parents passed me on the way in." He frowned. "You should have told me about your mom and dad. We would have understood—you're a brave girl, Sara. None of us realized how really brave you were until that night in the desert. I still remember how frantic Grissom was about you."

Sara snorted. "I hope all my ghosts are friendly. I don't want to see Natalie again." She coughed a couple of times.

"Hey, don't do much coughing—that's not going to help things. Those two boys keep you pretty busy, don't they? And then you added the two girls. I'd have never guessed Grissom to be a dad to four!" He laughed, the melodious sound was like hearing an old favorite song to Sara's ears. "And he's good, isn't he?"

"He is—we are. Can you see John and Will? And you know about Gemma and Geena? Are they okay? Gil says it's a lot like having us following him around in 2002!"

"You are a sweetheart, Sara. Everyone's fine. I'll let them explain what's going on in a little while." He laughed. "The girls are beautiful."

Sara could feel her body relaxing as if she were breathing fresh mountain air. She had always enjoyed talking to Warrick; his voice was so calm that somehow she knew he was okay. "We—we found out we loved having kids so when Gemma and Geena were pulled from that wreck and needed a place to stay—what else could I do? Remember Carol, the social worker who was around for years—she helped so much and then they really did not have anyone else. By the time we learned all of that, they had been with us for a month." She smiled. "It's easy, Warrick."

As he smiled, his eyes twinkling, she frowned. "Did this happen to you? The day you died? Did someone stay with you? Did you know Grissom was there?"

"No, honey. I went fast—and you're not dying, you know—but I went from my car to the arms of my mom and grandmother. Faster than a blink of an eye." He chuckled. "I did get back in time to stop Nick from shooting the asshole undersheriff." He shook his head as Sara laughed. "That was difficult but it was much better for Nick that he did not shoot the bastard."

"How does this work? Your return?"

His smile returned. "We only return for the good ones, honey. We can't stop the bad guys but we can visit the good ones, especially in times like this." He patted her shoulder and for the first time, she realized she could feel his hand. "You're going to be fine. But remember, don't be too hard on those boys—they are just like their dad, truth be told."

The pressure of his hand increased as his face faded.

"Don't leave. Don't leave! Talk to me," she pleaded.

But Warrick's friendly smiling face and laughing green eyes disappeared, replaced by two intense blue eyes, blurry at first, and then slowly focused to be the very worried face of her husband.

He was saying, "I'm here, I'm here, Sara! You're going to be fine!"

"Are you okay? Where am I? Where are the kids?" Sara asked her questions quickly, but Grissom seemed to ignore her words. Maybe, she thought, she was still dreaming. She struggled, trying to sit up, before realizing she was strapped to a gurney—and moving.

"Going to the hospital—you're going to be fine!" He gripped her hand in both of his. She was wrapped in a blanket yet he felt her shiver. "She's cold," he said to someone Sara could not see.

In a few minutes, she felt warmth seeping into her legs. "I saw Warrick," she mumbled.

Grissom's face was back above hers. "No, honey, you saw Nick. He got to the house just as the paramedics arrived."

"What happened, Gil? I think I was shot but I don't remember."

"You were shot—and you fainted."

"The kids?" She suddenly realized intense pain was coming from—her shoulder—that made her cold everywhere else.

"Fine, everyone's fine." He bent over her hand and kissed her fingers. "Rest, honey. We're almost at the hospital."

Grissom blew out a long breath. The past fifteen minutes had been bedlam—no, he corrected his thoughts. The first five minutes had been a nightmare before chaos. He had been standing in the kitchen thinking about eating when he heard a pop; he still wasn't sure what he'd heard, but he turned in time to see Sara sliding to the floor and his sons were shouting…

_Lights were suddenly on_. The boys were shouting—yelling in confused terror a better description—as he ran down the hallway. Sara was on the floor; his fingers sought a pulse. She was unconscious, a bright crimson stain spreading over her shoulder, her head at an odd angle.

He did not remember saying anything, but he must have because Gemma was in the hallway on the phone, talking to someone, saying her mother had been shot. And then he heard his son.

"I'm so sorry, so sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to—you know I didn't mean too." The boy was crying, saying the same thing over and over.

At some point, they were all around Sara—he was holding a towel to her shoulder; John was sobbing. Will was trying to explain something about a flashlight and a gun—the only gun in the house was in a locked box. Grissom could not understand what Will was telling him. And Gemma and Geena were crying as they leaned over Sara.

Suddenly, the noise of multiple voices seemed to explode in the house.

Grissom yelled, "Back here!"

The first person he saw was Nick followed by paramedics and a policeman. Grissom's brain was tripping over its self; what was happening, how had Nick arrived so quickly, who, what had shot Sara?

Nick asked, "What happened? Gun shot? Who? I recognized your address!" He stopped before he got to Sara, shocked, trying to process what he was seeing.

Grissom and the four kids backed away as the paramedics went to work. For the first time since he had watched Sara fall, his brain seemed to function. "Okay, boys, what is going on?" His question was followed by a full minute of silence.

Gemma reached for something on the bed. "I knew they were making these, but I never, ever thought one of them would shoot Mom!" She held out her hand.

Nick and Grissom quickly recognized a homemade gun, made from the tube of a flashlight and several easily obtained items—a coiled metal spring, a rubber band, duct tape, a little knowledge of chemistry and cap guns.

"We were trying it out—aimed at a pillow! Dad, we had no idea Mom was going to open the door!" Will cried. "We didn't think it would work!"

Grissom's eyes went from the object in his daughter's hand to the faces of his sons and for the first time in years, he was speechless.

Nick cleared his throat and glanced at Grissom, before saying "You know you're not supposed to make a homemade gun."

One of the paramedics spoke: "We need to get her to the hospital."

A look of overwhelming confusion crossed Grissom's face, his expression reflected in the faces of the four children looking at him.

"Go with her," Nick said. "I'll stay here and we'll sort things out." When Grissom remained in one place, Nick put a hand on his shoulder. "Pants, shoes—go with Sara. I'll stay here."

John had managed to stop his tears. "I didn't mean to, Dad. What can I do?"

Grissom turned to his son and pulled him tightly against his chest; several seconds passed before he released him. "She knows that. We'll talk about this later."

The kids followed the gurney to the ambulance while Grissom ran to the bedroom for clothes.

Geena, the youngest asked, "Why isn't she waking up? She's so calm—she looks asleep."

Everything seemed to move in slow motion as Sara was placed in the back of the ambulance and Grissom climbed in with her.

"Back inside," Nick announced. "We need to get this story straight before they get home." He pointed at the two boys. "You two have some explaining to do." He wrapped an arm around Geena. "Your mama's going to be fine, sweetheart."

"Why wasn't she waking up, Uncle Nick?" she asked.

Nick shook his head, "Not sure, sweetie, but she probably hit her head when she fell and it's taking her a while to wake up." He hugged the little girl tightly, and as they entered the house, said "Gemma, can you and Geena fix us some drinks—water's fine—before we sit down with this officer and explain what happened tonight?"

_Hours later_, Grissom thanked the policeman who brought them home as he helped Sara out of the car. Still lightheaded from pain medication, her shoulder bandaged and her arm in a soft sling, Sara leaned against Grissom as he and the policeman talked about paperwork—or the lack of paperwork—for the events of the night. This was the same policeman who had arrived at the house with Nick and the paramedics and had given the parents the 'rest of the story' as he had called it when he arrived at the hospital.

"Nick feels safe," Grissom said as he opened the unlocked front door. "Guess he thinks a homemade firearm on the premises will scare away any evil doers."

"I still can't believe they made a gun and two bullets—and it worked!" Sara whispered as she pointed to two feet positioned on the end of the sofa. "I think Nick's tired."

"I'm tired," Grissom groaned. "And hungry."

"What are we going to do?" Sara asked. She opened the refrigerator, placed a container of yogurt in front of him and reached for another one. Lifting the trash can lid, she said: "Looks like pizza was delivered."

Grissom chuckled for the first time in hours. "Maybe everyone will sleep—for a long time." He peeled open both containers of yogurt, got two spoons from a drawer and nodded toward their bedroom. "Let's eat in bed—pretend we don't have to deal with this."

"I want my own clothes!" Plucking at the sleeve of hospital scrubs, Sara laughed, softly. "We'll deal with it—a homemade gun—from a flashlight." She stopped at the doorway to their bedroom. "Someone told me those boys were just like their dad." She pushed the door open. "Oh, Gil." Her words whispered out with a sigh. "Our bed is full."

A large dog was asleep across the foot of the bed; partly covered, arms and legs were tangled or sprawled across the bed. One of the boys had pulled a chair near the bed and was asleep, feet propped near his sister's head. The dog, Hank Three, lifted his head to look at her and, just as quickly, dropped his head.

Grissom wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Let's find another bed."

"Twin beds, Gil."

They slipped passed Nick who was wrapped in a pink and yellow blanket from Geena's bed. Closing the door to the girls' room, Grissom straightened covers on each bed and then ate his yogurt while he watched Sara as she picked up a stuffed bear, a jacket, and several other things belonging to the girls. He waved her to the bed.

"I'll sleep in these," Sara said. "I'm so tired I could sleep sitting up."

"Get in beside me, dear," Grissom said with a laugh as he crawled under the covers of Gemma's bed. "I'll keep you warm." Shaking his head, he smiled. "And I'll protect your gunshot wound."

Sara got into bed beside him, settling her back against his chest as he covered both of them. "What are we going to do?"

"Sleep."

"That's not what I mean, Gil."

He wiggled his hips against her butt. "I'll think of something," he mumbled. His arm wrapped around Sara's waist and his hand enclosed hers. "Try to sleep." His fingers caressed her fingers and played with the band on her ring finger. She had been unusually calm during the entire incident, he thought as her body molded against his. In a few minutes, he realized the pain meds were working and Sara was asleep. He hugged her tightly.

_Epilogue _

I look at my situation as a hobby—I don't feel pain, I'm happy, I can cause good things to happen, I can be there when people need a friend, need special attention. Most of them never know I'm there; only those with a powerful and passionate sense of essence can see me—and then only in extreme moments of stress and they usually think I'm a dream.

I continue to watch over Sara and Griss and their family. Of course, Sara recovered from her gunshot wound caused by a 'lead' bullet made from melted wire and enclosed in copper. A flesh wound in soft tissues that bled quickly and profusely as the homemade bullet entered her body. And she never again mentioned seeing me, or any of the others, when she talked about that night.

Geena and Gemma recovered from the trauma of the night quickly. By the next morning, Geena was helping Nick make pancakes while her sister was delivering a severe lecture to her brothers. I don't have to watch over them; their birth mother spends all her time making sure those girls learn everything possible from Sara. DNA isn't everything, you know.

As for John and Will, the two boys, deeply chagrined by the reprimand from their sister, dreaded the prospect of punishment from their parents. Their Uncle Nick had spared no words as he had explained the law—pretty much put the fear of wrong-doing in their brilliant minds—but then he and the policeman had gone outside to talk and, of course, they had not been taken to jail. Both of the guys knew this was a bad science project idea thought up by two twelve year olds thinking like most of us do at twelve!

The punishment was typical Grissom. He took the entire family to a shooting range, taught the kids how to shoot, how to handle a gun, and showed off his own marksmanship talents. The boys were impressed—stunned into silence when Grissom's target was pulled up—and then Sara fired. All of us knew Sara Sidle had bull's eye vision with a handgun and that day her children learned a well-kept secret—six bullets had gone into the center of the circle and she had never hesitated when pulling the trigger. The silence after seeing Grissom's target changed to an amazed admiration when they saw Sara's shooting skills.

And Gil—I actually knew Grissom was with me when I died but I did not want Sara thinking about those minutes when we were talking. I have walked beside him since that day, followed him to Costa Rica and a dozen other far reaches around the world. I can't predict the future, but I had my suspicions that he was looking for a wider, broader life—moving to another level—before he or Sara knew. People always talk about women 'nesting' into home life, and what I saw Grissom doing was 'nesting'—gathering around him those he loved, settling into a good life with Sara. I'm saying those two were made for each other and the love they have is so powerful, so persuasive, so good and strong, it had to be shared. I always thought of Gil Grissom as the father I never knew, and, over the years, he has become that man.

I'll always love him.

**The End, Adieu, Farewell, So-long, Toodle-oo!**

_A/N: Now that this one is finished, we'd appreciate hearing what you think! We are taking a break, real life gets in the way, but, hopefully at some point we'll get back to writing about Sara and Grissom._

_To all who review-thank you! You have become good friends! And we appreciate the time you take to do so. We're not saying a final 'goodbye' yet, so keep watching for another story. _


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